


Copyright

by adaughterofeve



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: A whole new world au exchange, Agents of Shield is a novel Jemma's been writing, Alternate Universe, And then Fast Burn, And then Slow Burn again, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety Attacks, Art Mirrors Life, Bad Decisions, Consensual Sex, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Kidnapping, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, morethan5k exchange
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-25
Updated: 2015-10-08
Packaged: 2018-04-23 06:49:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 28,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4867154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adaughterofeve/pseuds/adaughterofeve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Novelist hopeful Jemma Simmons has only one publishing company left to turn to with her novel, The Agents of Shield, which provides a much needed outlet for the echoes of her dark past. Publisher and editor of Tristesse books, Leo Fitz, has no idea what he's getting himself into when he agrees to publish it, under the condition that they work together to iron out the kinks. As they become closer and Fitz finds himself falling for Jemma, he also faces an impossible decision when he discovers that she can only write, and thus finish her novel and face her demons, when she's unhappy. A 'Not Another Happy Ending' movie AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HufflepuffBook_Keeper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HufflepuffBook_Keeper/gifts).



> Written for swagkittencat as part of the Whole New World AU (more than 5k) exchange! I hope this is a good balance of angst/fluff for you. I also hope that you enjoy reading this as much as I have enjoyed putting it together. 
> 
> The rest of the story will be posted a chapter every-other day for the next week or so!

 

 

 

 

To my Mum, who I miss every single day.

 

~~And my Dad.~~

                                    -Jemma Simmons, novelist (?)

 

Jemma stared ahead, unblinkingly, at the letter of rejection. The paper was beginning to warp with moisture and the ink had begun bleeding down from apologetic consolations and scribbled signatures, but she needed the grounding of the hot water against her skin.

Her mind echoed with _you're not enough, you're not worth the effort._ She sighed and turned off the water, feeling no lessening of the weight on her shoulders.

The rejection letter joined its warped, ink-bled counterparts, taped neatly around her mirror.

A cup of tea did little to lift her gloomy spirits, but it did help her gather her wits as she stared moodily out of her flat’s kitchen window into the rainy London afternoon. Eleven out of twelve had responded; only one publishing company remained, dawdling in their decision. It was a small publishing firm, hardly her first choice, but as all her choices had said a polite “no thanks”, she didn't know what choice she had.

And if they rejected her too, what then? Continue with this muddled attempt to be an author, chasing the fantasy of eliminating nightmares? She took another sip of tea. She wouldn't lose the flat, regardless of what happened. Her father provided the small but cozy flat in the affluent Marylebone neighborhood despite her frustrated attempts to dissuade him. He insisted that until such time that she returned herself to a proper job and abandoned this endeavor, the responsibility of making her seem the proper, well-functioning lady and maintain the family's image would fall to him. The monthly flat checks were always accompanied by a load of guilt and a one sided attempt at conversation. As each one arrived, Jemma considered tearing it up and throwing it in the bin. But with a reluctant pint and a hot bath, she always sent it along.

She didn't know what the fuss was all about on maintaining family image; she could barely be traced back to her family anymore and there wasn't a particular need for press on the ambassador’s daughter.

But if she received a final rejection… what then. True, the lab would welcome her back in a few months and she could return to her normal life. With one giant gaping hole of a year missing, like an asterisk next to her name. This year would have been a zero sum. Proving nothing to herself, proving nothing to anybody.

Jemma pursed her lips and set her empty mug down in the sink. Questions would get her nowhere; she needed facts. Until she had a final verdict on this endeavor, her turbulent thoughts would find no resolve. She needed an answer one way or another. Glancing at her watch, she turned to her bedroom to find her rain boots.

 

 

 

“Skye!” Fitz yelled to the adjoining office.

No response.

Huffing in frustration, he dropped the folders in his hand onto his already overflowing desk and briskly walked to his office door just to reach it as his assistant did. “Gah! Stop doing tha’!”

Skye glared at him, rather owlishly, behind her wide-framed glasses. “We have an intercom. Or a phone. Or you could text me!” She waved her hands about in front of her. “The wonders of technology! You know. Rather than yelling at me like a puppy in obedience school.”

Fitz stared at her, unmoved.

“Now, what did you need?”

“Tha’ coffee you promised an hour ago.”

Skye looked genuinely surprised. “Oh! Right. On it.” She turned and scurried back towards her desk.

Fitz sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, turning back into his cluttered office as the phone rang again. “Not today…” he whined to no one in particular. He let the call go to voicemail and settled back down in his chair, reaching for the manuscript he had disposed of earlier. Ten minutes later it joined the larger of the piles on his desk with a bored sigh. Most he ever received anymore was the same dystopian shit riding the tailcoats of American young-adult successes like The Hunger Games and Divergent. If he had to endure one more badly-written faux-feminist love-struck supposedly homely-looking teenage girl saving a post-apocalyptic society, he might just shut down the firm. He rubbed his eyes and reached for a coffee that wasn’t there.

“Skye!”

No response.

Grimacing, Fitz paced towards the door and opened it, straight into Skye and a steaming long black coffee which had obviously been intended for him but was now dripping down his white dress shirt. He froze, staring pointedly at the wall with tight lips and not at Skye’s wide-eyed expression.

After a moment, during which the only sound was the pitter-patter of coffee dripping off of Fitz’s chest, Skye cleared her throat and said conversationally, “We really have to stop doing that. In retrospect, if you had texted me, this wouldn’t have happened.” She paused, as if waiting for an outburst, and then continued quickly, “I’ll see if we have a spare shirt.”

Not trusting himself to answer, Fitz gave a terse nod and slowly turned back into his office, stripping off the coffee-colored shirt and throwing it across the room. He leaned against the desk, still careful not to knock over the leaning towers of shit manuscripts, and pinched the bridge of his nose again.

 

 

          

Tristesse Books (her one last opportunity, Jemma thought grimly) was situated above a small local coffee-shop in Fitzrovia. She quietly slipped her sunflower yellow umbrella into the waiting bin and ducked around the corner of the apartment-turned office to the reception area where a young woman was digging furiously through a cabinet, completely unaware of Jemma’s presence.

“Hello? Sorry, am I in the right place?”

The young woman stood up quickly, bright eyes and caramel hair in a whirl and beamed at Jemma. “Probably. Are you looking for the publishing office?”

“Yes, yes I am.” Jemma smiled at the young woman, who looked only a little younger than Jemma’s own 27 years. “I’m Jemma Simmons.”

The woman smiled back and extended her hand. “Skye Johnson.” At Jemma’s look she rolled her eyes and joked, “American hippie parents. Don’t ask.”

“No! No, it’s a lovely name!”

Skye laughed as she took a seat behind her desk and flipped open her laptop. “Well thank you. I know it’s pretty unusual among you Brits.”

Jemma nodded but her nerves were clawing up from her stomach and she gripped her purse to have something to hang on to. “I was hoping to speak with Leopold Fitz, if he has a moment.”

Skye sniggered. “As a tip to start off with, don’t call him Leopold. It makes him cranky. And he’s already cranky enough today.”

Jemma’s stomach lurched. Perhaps she should come back at a different time, when he would be more inclined to receive her favorably?

“I’m sorry, what was your last name again?”

“Simmons.”

Skye frowned as she scanned through a file. “And Fitz has received your manuscript already?”

Jemma nodded, her hands starting to shake. She glanced back at the door, panic starting to creep in. Never had a rejection seemed so imminent.

“Oh! Wait!” Skye pulled up a file with an unrestrained grin. “Your manuscript was under J. Simmons?”

“Yes, is there a … a problem?”

“Nope. Not at all.” Skye’s face was positively gleeful and she stood up and gestured to Jemma to follow. “He has nothing but time right now.”

 

 

Unwilling to wait for Skye to find another shirt (lord only knew how long that would take), Fitz begrudgingly returned to examining the precarious piles of manuscripts before him. The firm had nothing right now, he had to pick something to go on, but he couldn't stomach most of the new pieces that had flooded his office. He shuffled through his (considerably smaller) pile of maybes again and pulled out one at random, sticking a red pen between his teeth as he leaned back in his chair to reevaluate the manuscript. He squirmed uncomfortably in the air conditioning, his bare back sticking unpleasantly to the leather chair. Faintly, two feminine voices filtered into his office but he ignored it. Skye generally was better at fending off the female romance attempted-authors.

A few minutes later, his office door creaked open. “ _Miss_ J Simmons to see you, Fitz,” Skye chirped, emphasizing the first word with barely contained mirth.

Distracted, Fitz glanced up. “Wha’ are you-” The words died on his lips and the pen clattered from his mouth to the floor hitting, he was sure, every single possible thing on the way down. _Christ_ , she was gorgeous. Burning golden amber eyes and honey brown hair. Her smile was hesitant, nervous even, but it still curled its way up her cheeks in a way he found most alluring.

Realizing he was awkwardly gawking with his mouth hanging open, Fitz stood up suddenly, attempting professionalism. Skye snorted and the woman suddenly blushed furiously, looking away. Fitz extended a hand out of reflex and then saw the bare skin of his arm and retracted it like he had been burned.

“Well. Yeah. Right. No shirt.” Fitz cleared his throat, looking pointedly around his guest to where Skye's eyes were shining with contained laughter. “Tha’ shirt, now please.”

Skye scurried away and Fitz offered the woman a tight, embarrassed smile. “’m sorry. I missed your name.”

“Jemma,” she said with an embarrassed smile, sitting in the chair Fitz gestured awkwardly to.

Fitz sat as well and folded his arms in front of him on the cluttered desk, as if all professional meetings were conducted part in the buff. “What can I do for you, Jemma?” Please let it not be another bad dystopian novel. The thought of rejecting her made his stomach clench uncomfortably.

A flicker of concern flitted across her face and he watched in fascination. “I was under the impression you had received my manuscript and I was wondering if you might have any news for me…” He watched her hands clench nervously in her lap and frowned in response, shuffling through some of the rejected pile that loomed greatest on his desk.

“I don't think I remember anything by a Jemma…”

“Oh, that's because I didn’t put my first name on it!” she said brightly. “It's just under J Simmons.”

Fitz choked on the sip of coffee he had just taken. “Sorry,” he rasped. “J Simmons?”

“Yes?” Jemma sounded concerned. “Is there a problem? Your assistant seemed surprised at that too.”

“I'm not surprised. And she's vindictive tha’ way.”

“Oh no, she’s lovely!”

Fitz glared darkly at where Skye was giving him an enthusiastic thumbs up through the shut office door. “Lovely, well, she's abou’ to become available.” Skye rolled her eyes and stomped back towards the front room. He turned his attention back to Jemma, now more seriously interested. “My assistant and I were under the impression tha’ you were a bloke.”

She frowned. “May I ask why?”

Shuffling through the “maybe” pile, Fitz pulled out a dog-eared well-annotated manuscript from the bottom and glanced over his general notes on the title page. “Well it's really dark. The tone, the mood, torture, murder. It gets pretty gruesome at parts. And t’ be honest, the majority of female authors we get in here are writing dystopian teen romances or Nicholas Sparks knock-offs. Not dark science fiction.”

Jemma scoffed like an angry cat might hiss. “Science fiction was founded by Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, which she had to publicize anonymously or else it would never have existed at all. This genre was built through the-”

Fitz held up his hands as if to ward off her wrath. “I don't disagree with you. I'm just telling you what I see in this office.”

All of Jemma’s angry energy evaporated like a deflated balloon. She looked at him crestfallen. “So it's too dark?”

Fitz stared seriously at her, weighing the options that piled on his desk. “It's not.” Her bright eyes widened and Fitz cleared his throat to offer himself a moment to focus. “It needs a lot of work, Jemma. It's rough. There are holes. And the ending?” He shook his head. “Not to mention the title. Agents of Shield? Tha's a title for a drama television series, not a novel.” Fitz looked down at his desk and the piles that he spent, day after day, continuously shuffling from one side to the other. He hadn't ruled her manuscript in; the work it needed was too substantial. But at the same time, he hadn't been able to rule it out.

He could feel the weight of Jemma's gaze on him as he flipped absently through her well-worn manuscript. The meat of the story, the bare bones, were very _very_ good. “Jemma, I'm not going to lie. Getting this ready to publish is going to take a lo’ of work.” He took a deep breath and braced himself to look her in the eye. Being swept up in her gaze was a heady experience, akin to vertigo or inebriation. Her bronze eyes hit him like a summer storm. “If you're willing to put in the work with me, I'll see this thing published.”

Those copper eyes suddenly welled with tears and Fitz felt suddenly flabbergasted. “Wha’? You’re…. crying…”

Skye burst into the office just in time to sweep Jemma into a hug and level an accusatory glare at Fitz, tossing him a spare pub crawl t-shirt. “What did you do?” She hissed at him angrily, stroking Jemma's hair as the crying woman buried her face into Skye's shoulder.

“He-accepted-my-novel,” Jemma managed to get out between breathy sobs.

Skye's mouth quirked into a grin that she offered Fitz over Jemma's shoulder and she said sympathetically, “It's okay. He's talented at making women cry.”

“I’m sorry!” Jemma offered quickly, trying unsuccessfully to brush tears away. “It’s just been such a difficult process of rejection and I’ve kept every letter… I have a board you know…”

“A board?” Fitz asked warily.

“Of rejection letters. I call it my board of pain… Which, I know, is completely silly…”

“No! Of course not!” Skye enthused, grin on her face.

“I’m-just-so-happy!” Jemma sobbed into Skye’s shoulder.

Fitz glared at Skye and wrestled himself into the t-shirt, mumbling, “’m so confused.”

 

 

 

Fitz woke with a start, reaching habitually for his alarm without opening his eyes. His hands found only bare table, though, and so he peeled open one eye to glance at the alarm clock. Barely five in the morning. Groaning, Fitz rolled over and pulled the covers over his head. Well, something had woken him up…

Another knock at his flat’s door. He hadn't registered the first one when it had woken him up. _Tap-tap-tap._ It was a smart little knock. Fitz glowered at the ceiling and outwardly groaned, pulling himself reluctantly from bed as he struggled towards the front door.

The first hints of sunrise were just starting to show themselves in soft hues of grey and pink above the London skyline. Fitz frowned. “Simmons?” He rubbed at his eyes futilely. No, she was definitely still there, bouncing from foot to foot nervously, nearly swallowed up in a cranberry sweatshirt that hung over her yoga pants like a poor excuse for a dress. He swallowed as he shivered, barely awake and faced with this spectacle.

“Christ, Jemma! Don't you know wha’ time it is?”

She continued her nervous little hop and suddenly Fitz was acutely aware of his shirtless chest. Twice in twenty four hours. Surely a record of some kind. “Well,” she chirped brightly, “I would have come by earlier but it was dark.”

“We call tha’ night. Is that a foreign concept to you?”

A small little frown creased her forehead. “No.”

“When I said we would have to start working righ’ away, I didn't imagine you showing up at my flat in the dead of night.”

“Morning.”

He couldn't stop his scowl. “Wha’ever.” He ran a hand through his unruly hair. Why couldn't she ever stop by at a time that he was fully dressed and showered? He frowned. “How did you know where I lived?”

“Oh! I was up late talking to Skye and she gave me your address.”

Great. What he really needed was his assistant and Jemma becoming fast friends. Another thought occurred to him. “Don't you ever sleep?”

Jemma reached into a leather shoulder bag and pulled out a neatly stapled stack of papers. “I revised a chapter.”

“Wha’? Last night? You don't have to rush tha’ much… Good lord.” The stack she eagerly pushed into his hands was easily twenty to thirty pages. He stared at her, still sleepy and baffled as she pushed her way past him and inside. A distant part of him thanked old habits that he had at least dragged the loads of laundry back to his bedroom to sort last night before turning in. He followed behind her, flipping randomly through the new chapter.

“So, I looked over your comments and of course! It doesn't make any sense for there to be no lingering effects of the TAHITI program, so I'll definitely have to go in and build that in to several of the chapters-”

“Hang on, wha’ are you doing?”

Jemma was tucking herself into the corner of his couch, sitting curled with her legs under her as she explained, but she paused at his question, looking up at him with those large molten-copper eyes. Fitz felt his stomach lurch and ran his hand through his hair again.

“What?”

“It's not even morning! I was sleeping; you can't just barge in here and stuff and…” he trailed off weakly and glowered down at her again, frowning at her small mischievous smile. “Wha’.”

She smiled brightly and said, “You’re awake now.”

“Yeah, no thanks to you.” He scrubbed at his eyes with the palm of his hand and tossed the manuscript back at her. He was up. It would be next to impossible for him to go back to sleep now. And that would be child's play to watching those eyes of hers as he threw her out of his flat. “Fine. We’ll do this your way. But before you say another single word, I need coffee.”

She smiled (his stomach lurched again) and opened her mouth, but he cut her off with a pointed finger. “Nope. Not a word.”

 

-           -           -           -           -           -           -           -           -           -           -           -

 

Little by little, Jemma began to weave herself into Fitz’s daily life. What had started on that first early morning became a routine that Fitz never had a chance to discourage before he no longer had a chance, or the desire, to discourage Jemma. A daily email or phone call became a brief appearance at his office. After a surly Fitz had suffered through more than one morning without breakfast or coffee, he ushered the conversation to a nearby coffee shop where he could listen to Jemma's nonstop chatter with caffeine. After that, the meetings over coffee (tea for her, he noticed) became routine.

At first Fitz protested (rather weakly) to the change in his daily routine. Where before he had been perfectly happy to roll out of bed and to the office in a disheveled and groggy state, spend his afternoon and evening butchering shit novels and bickering with Skye, and eventually end his night at the pub or camped out at home in front of the Telly, now the rare days he didn't hear from Jemma began to feel insufficient. He felt restless and unfulfilled (not at all helped along by the fact that Jemma was his only promising lead).

Pressure was mounting from his executives to find _something._ He became a broken record of repeating that he had, he just needed more time to work through it. How much more time? He didn't know, just more.

However, as three months became four and rainy summer storms became the promise of chilly fall drizzles, Jemma worked her way into the cracks of his life. August brought a span of sunny weather and tackling plot holes. September carried a string of showers that clogged the city's drains with leaves and the infamous argument about a character’s seemingly unnecessary death halfway through. By October, Jemma had filled in Tahiti plot points and Fitz was avoiding wrestling with the distinction between friendship and professionalism.

He woke up earlier, sometimes because he was half expecting Jemma to blow through the door, already mid-sentence and unable to understand that he would need at least a cup of coffee before he had any inclination of what she was saying, and sometimes of his own accord because he didn't know what to do with himself. He responded begrudgingly when she would barge in, but on the mornings where he woke up uninterrupted, he felt a little lost. As maddening as she could be, already mid-speech about everything from dendrotoxins to plot holes, he would find himself getting lost in her speeches. Not in her words but just caught up in _her._ She swept through his life like a swift wind in a wheat field, shaking up his long-held routines, waking him up for the first time in what felt like forever.

He slowly began to build his life around her habits as well. Almost painfully observant at times, as he had been all his life, he began to notice her tendencies and molded his actions to accommodate them.

That first morning when she had arrived with the dawn, he had sleepily offered her a cup of coffee, which she had flatly denied. When they went out to discuss revised chapters over an afternoon snack, she always got tea and never got caffeinated. He was sure she must be getting caffeine from somewhere; her schedule was erratic and her hands would sometimes shake.

That shake in her hands first clued him into another habit- when feeling particularly anxious, she would thoughtfully rub at her left wrist as if it pained her. Even in the late summer’s warmth, she wore breezy long-sleeved blouses that cuffed at the wrists. On the off occasion she wore something shorter, she always wore a wide-strapped watch. The more he noticed it, the more it seemed to stand out to him. He didn't press the question; as with all things with Jemma, personal questions were off limits and he had learned locked up his curiosity. Also, a question that personal didn't seem professionally appropriate. (That was an argument that was getting used less and less as he chose to ignore it again and again.)

She didn't like the dark. She always let Fitz enter a dark room first, finding some odd excuse or something she forgot to grab so that he would enter and turn on the light before she even entered the doorway. At first he thought she just couldn't sit still, but eventually he realized that she gravitated towards the pockets of light like a moth to a flame. As it got darker outside, she would grow edgier, prompting nervous habits that drove him crazy like tapping her pen or bouncing her knee. On more than one occasion, she received crumpled up pages of her discarded manuscript raining down on her in response. (She would then, of course, chastise him for treating her writing in such a way and he would try not to grin in response).

For all the barging into his life that she did, seemingly without thought, she remained reserved. He couldn't help but feel that he was only accessing the introductory level of Jemma, and even that was further than most people got. The pieces of her that he did see were earnest, enthusiastic, and brilliant, but also often uncertain and withdrawn. Despite her impromptu appearances at his own flat, he had never been to hers. While animated and enthusiastic when discussing the novel, (as their stubborn arguments illustrated), he couldn't help but feel like she was relatively alone outside of their story. When thoughts like those arose, he often tried to find some way to break her out of the story a little. Offer friendship outside of the novel. And, little by little, glimpses of their budding friendship began to appear in the story’s revisions.

Arguments they had soon gave rise to specific lines of dialogue between the two lead scientists of the novel. Candid moments he witnessed between Jemma and Skye quickly reflected the growing relationship between the protagonist and the biochemist. One afternoon he heard laughter echoing through his office as he climbed the staircase to the door and entered to find Skye, buried in one of the latest copies of the manuscript (obviously swiped from his desk), swearing that something the grumpy engineer had said was verbatim something that Fitz had told Skye the week before. Fitz shrugged it off but, back in his office, he pulled out his own copy and started evaluating the characters more closely.

True, the engineer’s occasional gruff and grumpy manner were much like his own and yes, he did often roll right out of bed and throw a jumper over his ruffled hair. His eyes were blue, (though he wouldn’t know if he would call them _piercingly_ so). He did find himself feeling akin to the way the engineer felt swept up by the biochemist, much as he often felt swept up like a strong breeze blew through the door every time Jemma entered a room.

But that was silly. He wasn’t an engineer. And Jemma wasn’t a biochemist.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It’s just tha’ I don’t understand. And I feel like for all your trust in me you keep me at an arm’s length.” Fitz sighed. “And I can’t hold you up from there.”  
> Jemma swallowed and nodded, blinking back tears. She took a careful, painful, deliberate step forward and took his hand. “Okay,” she said softly. “I’ll explain.”

Though at first Fitz had felt pestered by her constant barrage of messages or her unannounced appearances at his office, now as an afternoon faded and started to become evening, Fitz found himself checking his phone with a frown. The last he had heard from Jemma was a brief message yesterday, saying that she was tired and didn't think she would be by that afternoon as planned. Since then, silence. Jemma often kept odd hours to be sure- emails and messages received at all hours of the night and day- but a day of silence from her was odd. Feeling a bit uneasy, Fitz hesitated with her number pulled up on his phone. He dialed.

 

* * *

 

 

Jemma stared vacantly at the wall, sunken as deep into the couch as she could manage. Every light in the apartment was on and the heat turned up against the October chill, but still she felt cold to the bone. It was a chill that ached in her limbs yet burned like a fever behind her eyelids. She was so tired. But she wouldn't sleep. No.

Her bracelet of scars around her wrist throbbed, as if echoing her heartbeat. She knew the whisper and murmur in the air was just the hot water heater, but when she closed her eyes even to blink, it sounded like the leak of wind through broken panes of glass in a basement. The blankets were soft weaves against her skin, but she swore she could still feel the cold bone-hard dirt floors.

Her panic button lay conspicuously, bright plastic red against the well-worn wood of her coffee table. It was a comfort to know that it was there, even if she had no reason to press it. Panic attacks and nightmares were nothing that she could be guarded against. And the last thing she would want would be to have her father reasserting a position in her life because of this relapse. He would use it as a crowbar to the airtight seal she kept between them, but it would be his continued emotional indifference that would do the worse damage.

She shifted slightly, exhausted yet feverishly uncomfortable, and spared a glance to the laptop sleeping at the end of the couch. She should write. This was normally when she wrote best. There was a lot of work left to be done… But she felt too tired to even lift her arms for a notebook and a pen, let alone her heavy computer.

In the hours of quiet and cooking shows playing soundlessly on the telly while London slept, she had cried until she felt hollowed and brittle, capable of breaking at a single breath. She was tired of the fight and of the hurt and of the fear. She was tired of the anger and the isolation and the caution. She was tired of her instincts, her nightmares, and her loneliness. She found herself craving comfort, craving companionship, and thinking of the work she was missing with Fitz. In her exhaustion, her mind lingered on the crooked way he smiled when she coaxed him out of a grumpy mood or the evidence of the frantic way he must get up and dress, wrinkled shirts and disheveled hair. She imagined him pacing through his space as he did, thumb twisting at the opposite palm, mind racing. She realized how alone she felt.

A sudden buzzing at the table and she started, bolting upright like a frightened rabbit. Jemma's eyes darted to the panic button. _Only the phone ringing, Jemma. Only the phone. Breathe. Reach out. Answer it._ She gripped the phone and squinted through dry and burning eyes to see who called. Fitz. Jemma winced, feeling neglectful of her contract and, more personally, fearing his questions. She cuddled back down into the couch and nestled the phone to her ear. Her heartbeat still thrummed in her throat like she was taking fire. “Hello?” Her voice was as brittle and ragged as she felt.

“Jemma?”

“Yeah, Fitz.”

“Are you alrigh’? I hadn't heard from you after y’ said y’ weren't feeling well the other day.” He cleared his throat somewhat awkwardly, concern making the Scottish brogue fall heavily from his mouth.

She tested the different lies on her tongue, none of them sitting well. She sighed, feeling heavy with exhaustion. “No.” She could practically hear him squirm with discomfort on the other end of the line.

“Is there something tha’ you need? Eh, can I, you know, get you anything?”

Jemma’s eyes drifted to her bedroom door, the one room in the house that was unlit. She couldn’t face the darkness or the nightmares that had kept her from sleep these last few nights but she also couldn’t face the emptiness of her apartment. She filled it with her own demons even when awake. Suddenly, she realized how much she craved his company. “Can you come over?”

She heard the hesitation in his voice. “Over there? To your place?” He spoke cautiously, as if afraid to prompt too hard.

“Yeah,” she sighed.

“Alrigh’. I have some more comments for you on the revisions you just made to the afterlife section if you want to go over them and-”

“No,” she cut him off firmly. “I don’t want to work. I just want to do something, think about something else for a while.” She paused, feeling awkward. While they were friendly on a day to day basis, every interaction had revolved around her novel. It was easy to pretend that every novelist became companions with their publisher, but this would be taking that unspoken step beyond that. Would he be interested in her friendship? Feeling suddenly doubtful, she added lamely, “You know. If you're free.”

“Alrigh’,” he repeated, with some uncertainty. He paused. “I’ll need to know where I’m headed.”

She listed off her address, which she then had to repeat twice as she heard him rummage for a paper and pen. He hung up with promises of being there in about a half hour and she stared at the phone for a moment after ending the call. Was this a good idea? She had grown so used to keeping people at arms-length that she was no longer sure how to invite someone into her space. Her eyes flitted back over to the darkened bedroom. No, she had been alone with her demons for too long.

With a sigh, she pulled herself from the depths of the covers and shuffled over to the bathroom. If she was going to invite him into her space the least she could do would be brush her teeth.

 

* * *

 

 

Fitz tapped his foot impatiently, debating before the medicine aisle, aware that he was on the verge of being late to Jemma’s. He couldn’t, however, have stopped himself from ducking into the store to pick up a few things that she might want. Frowning, Fitz shuffled past the feminine aisle. Jemma wasn’t feeling well, but she hadn’t specified what. Stomach bug? Lady …issues? Headache? Mental health day? He glanced at his watch and swore, ducking towards the checkout.

 

Proudly and, surprisingly, only twenty minutes after the time he had promised Jemma, Fitz arrived on the doorstep of her flat. He wrestled for a minute with balancing the bag in his arms and pressing the bell to her flat, swearing as he nearly fell over against the wall of buzzers and waking the whole damn building. Her neighbors probably wouldn't have been in bed yet, but walking through the neighborhood full of colored doors and well-cleaned streets, Fitz already felt rumpled and out of place. How a budding novelist managed to pay for a flat in Marylebone was beyond him. How _anyone_ managed to pay for a flat here was beyond him. Frowning, Fitz nudged the buzzer again, shifting nervously from foot to foot.

“Who is it?” Her voice was still ragged and rough as it had been on the phone.

“Jemma, it's me. Can you buzz me up? My hands are full.”

“Fitz?”

“Yeah who else were you expecting at this hour?”

“I'll buzz you in.”

The door unlocked and Fitz struggled up the narrow staircase to flat number 2. Underneath the door rested a doormat with sunflowers; he felt one corner of his mouth curl up in a grin and he rapped quickly on her door. With a clicking and clacking of several locks being undone, the door swung open to reveal a familiar pair of molten copper eyes. Fitz’s half smile caught in his throat as he took in her shadowed eyes and pale pallor, the way she leaned against the doorframe for support and the sweater that swallowed her like a blanket. “Hey. You asked and here I am.” The bag shifted in his tired arms. “With presents.”

The faintest hint of curiosity flickered across her face and she peered owlishly into the bag he held. “Presents?” she asked, her voice tired.

“Yeah. Presents. You going to let me in or wha’?”

Wordlessly she backed out of the doorway and let him pass, locking the door again behind him. He carefully kicked off his shoes by the tidy lineup of boots and slippers by the door and glanced around her space. It fit her, the real Jemma he was coming to know in bits and pieces, like a well-worn glove. Large windows would offer her plenty of light in the day and much of the available wall space was dedicated to wall shelving stacked with books, somewhat haphazardly organized by color. The space was warm and full of color and comfort. A blanket had obviously been dragged from the bedroom around the corner to form a nest on the couch in the well-lit living space. He placed the bag on the wood table and she followed him, a little lost and hesitant in her movements.

“Presents?” she repeated, peering into the bag.

Fitz smiled wryly and said, “I must admit. Some of them are kind of self-serving, but you'll have to forgive me tha’.” He reached into the bag. “It was hard to know wha’ to get you, wha’ with not knowing wha’ was wrong. Beyond the usual, tha’ is.”

She scowled at him and he tried not to chuckle.

“So I landed on wha’ I figured were some safe bets. Tissues. Chocolate chip cookies. Tea. And…” He rummaged at the bottom. “Chinese food. You're sick so I'll give you the choice between Sichuan shrimp and the beef and broccoli. But don't expect this special treatment all the time. I can't afford you.”

Jemma stared at the goodies, an unreadable expression on her face. “You didn't need to bring anything,” she finally said, quietly.

Suddenly uncomfortable, Fitz shrugged and said, “If you're sick, you aren't writing. It's in my best interest.” _And definitely not anything else personal, no matter what I may think otherwise._

She nodded slowly, “Of course.”

His hand reached out of its own accord and rested carefully on her shoulder. Beneath the chunky knit of the sweater that dwarfed her, she felt frail and feverish. “All you had to do was call,” he amended gently.

She blinked back faint tears, but gave a small but genuine smile. “Thank you, Fitz.”

He shrugged and grabbed the cartons of Chinese food, heading for the couch. “Now, wha’ shit movie are we going to watch so I can obliterate the writing.”

 

It hadn’t taken long for Jemma’s eyes to droop and for her to gradually grow limp, leaning ever closer to Fitz as they watched a movie. His socked feet rested on her coffee table as he lounged comfortably in her couch, feeling at home in her space. Without question, she had tucked herself into the couch next to him and as the movie progressed, the tension in her limbs had eased until she rested against him. Periodically he glanced down at her, ever conscious about his movements and physical contact. However, he was instead rewarded with a soft relaxing of her features until her eyes slowly shut into sleep and her head tucked into his shoulder. He reached for the table lamp to shut it off but thought better of it and instead slowly lowered an arm from the back of the couch to gently envelop her shoulders.

 

* * *

 

 

A week later, Jemma was on the mend quite nicely from her foray back into nightmares. Exhausted as she was, she had slept through the night with her head pillowed against Fitz’s shoulder, waking when the sun crept through the apartment windows only to discover that Fitz had fallen asleep sometime in the night as well. His arm was loosely draped over her shoulder, a blanket pulled up across them both. Both of his socked feet poked out like little mountains from where they still were propped up against the coffee table. Shyly, Jemma had wriggled out of his arm and into the shower without waking him up. She had greeted him when he awoke later that morning with a cup of coffee, a thank you, and a quiet apology. He’d accepted the first two with a somewhat groggy smile but shrugged away the latter.

Since, she had relented on allowing people into her space and apparently was setting out to make up for lost time. A string of wet weather had hit the city and she was more than content to make Fitz come to _her_ place to work on the novel, rather than hike across to Fitzrovia and his flat or office. Thus, more often than not, in the week following their evening adventure Jemma welcomed a very soggy Fitz laden with a bag of their favorite bagels and tea into her space to work.

He quickly made himself at home in her space. He often paced while they discussed and he would often end up in front of her bookshelves, distractedly attempting to rearrange the books in alphabetical order. When he wasn’t looking, distracted by reading over an amended section of the text, she would quietly arrange them back in color order. Very early on he learned that the yellow mug was for her particular use, as it was a very special mug, or so she lectured him one afternoon, handing him a blue one to use instead. He quickly mapped out her kitchen, whipping up some omelets and tea late one night while she typed.

“I'm surprised you could find what you needed in the kitchen,” she had said, amused.

He had leveled a stare at her. “Jemma,” he said bluntly, “all I had to do was look in the most logical place for everything. Your kitchen is perfectly organized. Except the chocolate chips. Which for some reason are in the cabinet with the mugs and tea.”

She had smiled, sheepishly. “So I'm not tempted by them as often.”

“By them being in the cabinet that you use the most…”

She’d grinned. “That’s the theory.”

“Of course. Another logical solution.”

And so it was that she gradually grew accustomed to, and even fond of, the presence of someone else in her little space. The sounds of her flat, even when they were working quietly, were less lonely. She found she didn’t mind having someone else’s boots to mop up after or someone else’s mug to clean. She could deal with his snark and with his morning grumpiness. For once, she didn’t feel alone.

Of course, opening up her personal space to someone else did mean that the little oddities about her living habits that she most often forgot or ignored weren’t so secret anymore. Fitz had taken one look at the amount of deadbolts and locks on her front door the second morning he visited and asked wryly, “Expecting the elderly couple upstairs to be busting in?” There was little chance he couldn’t have noticed the nightlights in every room or the extra panic button where she kept her keys.

On one early afternoon, she had been completely absorbed in the revisions that he had just passed her that she didn’t even hear the house phone ring until Fitz caught her attention by calling her name several times and then making a mad scramble into a basket of freshly laundered towels while Jemma looked on, bemused. He held up an old house phone with a look of revulsion and said, “Anyone still uses one of these?”

“Yes, Fitz,” she said, distractedly, returning to the manuscript. “I do.”

“It says it’s your father.”

“Yep.”

“Should you answer it?”

“Nope.”

He watched her type silently, the phone finally silent in his hands, until she felt his gaze and looked up.

“What?’

“How’d you know it was your dad?”

She flipped a few pages through the manuscript and then started typing additions on her laptop, answering absent-mindedly. “He’s the only one who has that number.”

“Wha’ you didn’t want to give him your mobile?” he joked, tossing the phone back into the laundry where she had been keeping it to muffle the sound of the ringing. It was, after all, nearly time for her monthly dose of guilt and lecture from her father. She’d been expecting, and dodging, the call for the last few days.

“No.”

“Oh.” He clammed up quickly and cleared his throat awkwardly, shuffling around some pages in front of him, a poor attempt at nonchalance.

“It’s alright, Fitz. No need for you to be all…” she gestured, “like that. There’s no love lost there. It’s not a sore subject.”

Fitz gave a noncommittal reply that was more of a grunt, but the sudden tension in his shoulders eased.

“Anyway,” Jemma said, changing the subject. “If we get through these revisions in the last few days, I should be able to crank out a last chapter and get that to you in the next week or so.”

He offered one of his crooked smiles. “Tha’ would be great. Then I can be rid of you once and for all.”

She threw a pen at him.

 

* * *

 

 

The rainy weather finally abated and, unwilling to spend any more time cooped up in either one of their flat’s, Fitz convinced Jemma to enjoy the some of the last of the season’s sunshine with a late lunch outside. The midday crowd had mostly abated, so she seemed comfortable and relaxed. She kept tipping her face towards the afternoon sunshine, smiling softly with closed eyes, which was just as well for Fitz couldn’t seem to keep his eyes from her sunlit hair and glowing skin. He tried to focus on eating instead, but he kept missing his mouth with his fork and with his glass. Eventually, he just set both down with a long-winded sigh. At the sound, Jemma opened her eyes and looked back to him.

“Something wrong?”

He cleared his throat. “Nah.” He shifted uncomfortably, searching for a topic and grasping at the only thing they ever seemed to talk about: the story. “Just thinking about the ending.”

“Ah yes,” she said, dramatically, tipping her face back into the sunlight. “The great tragic ending.”

“See I don’t know why you insist tha’ it should end on a bad note. We’ve spent so much time building up the team dynamics and personal relationships and you’re going to throw all tha’ away.”

She frowned, scrunching up her nose. “Basically.” She plucked her drink off the table and sucked thoughtfully at the straw. “Besides. A lot of the greats ended tragically. In fact, a lot of the greats had no plot at all so I’ve bested them in that regard.”

“Tha’ is absolutely not true.”

“Really?” she asked sardonically. She held up fingers and began to count off. “ _Hamlet_ by William Shakespeare. Everyone dies. _Lord of the Flies_ by William Golding. Literally, little boys kill each other out of spite. _Les Miserables_. Everyone dies singing. _The Stranger_. He kills a guy and then goes on with life. _Crime and Punishment_. He kills a guy and then worries about it forever. _The Great Gatsby_. Literally no one is happy and people die. Even in _Charlotte’s Web_ the spider dies.”

“Well tha’s a rather bleak way of looking at it.”

She shrugged and stole one of his crisps, chewing thoughtfully. “I don’t know that I have it in me for a happy ending.”

“Can you at least aim for hopeful? Your audience is going to care about these characters. They’re an intelligent bunch who are going to feel betrayed if there is no reason behind the ending.”

Jemma opened her mouth to respond, but her gaze flickered past his shoulder as Fitz heard approaching footsteps. He glanced up and his expression darkened, the chair screeching against the cobblestones as he stood up quickly, dangerously close to the man approaching the table. “Ward,” he addressed, tightly.

“Fitz!” Grant Ward’s suave relaxed saunter was an insult in itself and he smiled in a way that said that he knew it. “I heard you had a new writer under your wing and I figured I had to come to the rescue.” He smiled at Jemma and held out his hand for her own, which she extended hesitantly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Instead of a handshake, he brought her hand up to his lips as he bent over her hand and kissed her knuckles lightly.

Fitz’s hands clenched at his side and he could feel the anger rumbling in his chest, making his muscles quiver. “Can I help you with something or were you just gracing us with your presence?” He was sure the hostility was coming out openly in his tone; Jemma’s confused expression in his direction made that much clear. Still, he had no reason for civility, if even that.

Ward seemed amused by his anger, as if enjoying the reaction he could draw from Fitz, simply by his presence. “Actually, I’m not here to talk to you. I’m here to talk to Miss Simmons.”

She glanced back and forth between the two of them, as if trying to appraise the situation. “And you are?”

Ward smiled and chuckled as if embarrassed, pulling out Fitz’s chair and taking a seat. “I’m sorry, where are my manners? I’m Grant Ward. Writer and producer at the American Broadcasting Company.”

Fitz crossed his arms, standing sullenly beside his place at the table. “She doesn’t need you, Ward.”

“Need me?” Jemma gave a little frown and looked between the two of them. “What do you mean?”

Ward had completely disregarded Fitz’s comment, staring as if he only had eyes for Jemma. Fitz had heard first-hand what it was like to be the subject under that gaze. To feel suddenly so important and valued and to feel drunk off the sensation of someone paying attention to you. He had also heard first-hand how dangerous and damaging it could be when you discovered it was false. Ward smiled and took her hand. (Fitz saw the momentary skittishness pass across Jemma’s face; he knew of her reactions to unexpected physical contact.) “I have heard about the project the two of you have been working on together, and I wanted you to know that I’m interested. Very interested.”

Jemma frowned, confused. “My book? What do you mean, it’s not even published yet.”

“Yet. And when it is, or even before then, I would love to help you make it a new hit show.”

She blinked rapidly and Fitz sensed that she was overwhelmed. “A television show? Out of my novel?”

Ward nodded and smiled, pulling a business card out of his pocket and pressing it into her hand. “Absolutely. We’re always on the lookout for authors of your caliber and talent to raise the standards on our networks. People will flock to your stories like moths to a flame. And you’ll finally get the chance to tell your stories as they were meant to be told.” He offered a side glance at Fitz, as though derogatorily implying that a novel with him was insufficient. “I won’t take up any more of your time now; I know how busy you must be. You have writing to do.” He stood up from Fitz’s chair and smiled down at Jemma. “It was wonderful to meet you. Let me know if you ever want to get a drink and talk business or pleasure some time. Even if you don’t want to run with the novel, I’m certain I have contacts that will open some better doors for you.” He offered her one last smile that Fitz was inclined to think of as a leer and turned to go, slapping Fitz on the shoulder as he passed and calling over his shoulder, “Give my regards to Skye.”

Sullen and seething, Fitz dropped back down into his chair, clenching his hands together to keep them from shaking. When he glanced up, Jemma’s eyes were trained on his.

“What is wrong with you?” she asked, dumbfounded. “He seemed perfectly nice.”

“Yeah, he does tha’,” Fitz spat back. Jemma blinked in surprise at his tone and he winced, regretting it. “I’m sorry, Jemma. I didn’t mean to… It’s just… You can’t work with him.”

She frowned, never keen on being told she couldn’t do something. “Why not?”

“Because he doesn’t care about your novel. Honestly, I doubt he’s even read it. And even if he has? He’ll change the whole thing. You can’t trust him, Jemma.”

“You guys seemed to have quite the history…”

“It wasn’t my idea, trust me.”

She sighed, frustrated. “It’s not up to you who I work with.”

“Actually, generally it is since you do have a contract with me.”

“Yeah. One book and then we’re done. What I do with it after that is my business.”

“I know, it’s just…” Fitz ran his hands through his hair in frustration, not wanting to reveal stories that weren’t his to tell, but also not wanting Jemma to involve himself with her at all. “Look, as a friend. Just don’t, alright?”

She huffed and waved her hands in frustration. “Fine, whatever. Let’s just get back to talking about the ending.”

 

* * *

       

Jemma stormed into Tristesse books, practically throwing the door open in her anger. The front office was empty; school was in session and Skye was only working part-time hours in the publishing office. She didn’t even stop to take off her raincoat but, instead, thundered directly into Fitz’s office. Her pace flicked rain across the carpet and on the manuscripts scattered there like a dog after a bath. Fitz glanced up in alarm, just as Jemma slammed the door behind her.

“‘This is not an ending’?” she quoted, furiously waving her phone in front of his face.

Fitz’s alarm quickly dissipated as he realized what she was referencing. “Well it’s not. Jemma, you had everything wrapping up nicely with Daisy’s confrontation with her mother and the way you handled Cal. And then Dr. Simon gets eaten by a rock, righ’ after she’s finally agreed to go on a date. And boom. Done. Tha’s the end we discussed? Forget hopeful or depressing, it’s not even about your protagonist.” He turned back to the papers on his desk and added, not looking at her. “It’s not an ending Jemma. Tha’s not how you wrap up a story. The whole thing needs to be changed.”

She stared at him, as if struck in the face. “What?”

Fitz looked back up. “The whole las’ chapter. It needs t’ go.” Absently, he leafed through a stack of files on his desk. “Soon, if possible.”

“But..” she stammered. “Where did this come from? I mean all that work we were doing together and building up to this and things were finally going to go right for Fitz-”

His head jerked back up with a snap.

“-I mean for Fisk and Simon and I didn’t think a happy ending was really deserved…” She trailed off, feeling her eyes water as her anger evaporated and left behind a bitter aftertaste of betrayal. “No one’s ever got me, got my writing the way you…” She looked back up to his face, where his eyes were now locked on hers. “You didn’t want me to go work with Grant when his company would have made my book a production and I trusted your instincts but now I’m not so sure. Everything you say he’ll do? Change my endings, reword my writing until it’s not mine anymore? That’s what you’re doing!”

“Jemma-” he tried to break in, complacently.

“Don’t ‘Jem-ma’ me, Fitz,” she hissed. “I’m not twelve and I can make my own decisions. I don’t need you.”

At this, Fitz finally broke out of his stoic expression and sighed. “No, no you probably don’t Jemma. But you didn’t trust my instincts about Ward, you fought me every step of the way and tha’ is one situation in which you are just going to have to not know everything and trust me. If that’s something you’re capable of. If you can stop worshiping your own pain and actually listen to someone.”

There was a beat of silence. Jemma felt her anger, her confusion, and her betrayal well up in her throat as if to choke her. Drops of rain dripped off her jacket onto the pages around her, sounding like dozens of little slaps on the wrist. She had no response. She had no thoughts. Her mind was a continual loop. _Worshiping your pain… worshiping your pain… worshiping your pain._ In her ears she could hear it again. _You aren’t enough. You’re not worth the effort. You’re too much._ It was as if that mantra had never left.

Numbly, she nodded. “I’m sorry I’ve wasted your time.” She turned from the office, walking out the hallway and to the door as she heard him mutter “Shite, Jemma!” and stumble over manuscripts as he called her name and made to follow her.

The door slammed behind her.

 

* * *

 

 

It wasn’t long before Jemma was fed up of prowling her apartment in the cold, feeling the sullen silence of the phone like an accusation. He had called, of course he had called. Repeatedly. Often. And when she didn’t respond or reply, he stopped calling. After a few days of pacing and offering biting comments to everyone within reach, she finally acknowledged that perhaps she needed a different outlet. She was angry and hurt, and while that usually would work well in her favor for writing, every time she laid eyes on her manuscript, her stomach churned unpleasantly.

She knew Fitz was right but he was also wrong. But she was right too, even if she was also wrong. She let his apologies go unaccepted and his questions go unanswered. No matter how true his statement, he had had no right to say it as he did, in a mockery of what she had been through, as dismissive as her father. A faint voice in the back of her mind defended Fitz, for he knew nothing of her story, but the anger and hurt was like a tempest within her mind and that faint voice was swallowed up in the storm.

So after a hearty mental debate and some degree of bitterness directed in Fitz’s direction, she pulled out her phone and dialed a number scratched out on a business card she had kept despite her better judgement.

“Grant! Hey! It’s Jemma.”

“Jemma! How are you?” Even over the phone, his voice practically purred in a way that set the hair on the back of her neck on edge.

“I’m fine. Look, were you still interested in getting a drink with me? I’d like to get out.”

“You mean Fitz is finally letting you out of the office?”

The wry face that question wrung out of Jemma doubled the bitter and rebellious feeling lining her stomach. “Something like that. I know its last minute, I’m sorry. Are you free?”

“For you? Always. I have the perfect place in mind. I hope you like dancing.”

She didn’t really, but she would deal. “Sounds perfect. Pick me up around eleven?”

“I’ll be looking forward to it.”

Jemma held the phone in her hand for a moment after Grant had hung up, staring at it in mute defiance before stalking towards the kitchen and pulling down her handle of whiskey from above the sink.

 

* * *

 

The last few days of bitter silence from Jemma meant that Fitz’s life uncomfortably tried to adjust back into his normal patters before she had entered his life. He found himself lingering longer in bed every morning, not asleep but staring sullenly at the ceiling. Work was empty between Jemma’s absence and the awkward probes from Skye who knew that something was up between her two friends but didn’t know the specifics. At night, he restlessly skimmed channels on the telly and composed a half a hundred texts to Jemma that he always deleted, knowing they would go unanswered just as those he had sent.

Tonight was no different. He was half-heartedly watching a documentary on monkeys and considering turning in when his phone rang. Lurching across the couch, Fitz nearly fell onto the floor, scattering a smattering of magazines and half-hearted edits for manuscripts. “Hello?”

“Fitz!”

He froze, his heart murmuring as it spluttered and skipped. “Jemma?”

“Fitz!”

“…Jemma?” He frowned. “Are you alrigh’?” He could barely hear her over a blasting music and incomprehensible chatter, but her voice was pitched higher than normal, almost frantic. Or excited? Where was she?

Her voice dropped to a barely audible stage whisper. “I can’t find my panic button. And you’re on speed dial! That’s so convenient. Though not really. Because I really am very cross with you right now Fitzapold…” Her voice trailed off and he heard Jemma murmur to someone else for a moment. “Sorry! ‘M in the loo and I’m holding up the line and now they’re cross with me!”

Fitz frowned and sat up on the couch, losing his relaxed stance. “You’re hiding in the bathroom? Jemma, where are you?” Now that he was listening for it, her voice was definitely slurred with liquor.

“No. Shhhhhhh…. I’m s’posed to be getting away from you and sneaking out and everything…”

“Tha’ literally makes no sense.” Worried, Fitz ran his hands through his hair. “Jemma, are you alrigh’?”

She was quiet for so long he thought she had forgotten that she was on the phone. But then, through the pounding bass and the distant knocks on what he assumed was the bathroom door, he heard her small voice whisper, “No.”

Fitz lurched off of the couch, tripping slightly on the spilled papers on the floor. “Do you need me to come and get you?” His hands automatically found his wallet and he scrambled for a jacket and his keys. “Where are you exactly?”

She slurred off the name of a club in London central and he pinched his nose. Dark spaces, loud noises, crowds of strangers. Why had she even gone there? A sudden suspicion sinking in his stomach, he asked carefully, “Jemma… are you there alone?”

Another beat. “No.”

He was out the door a moment later. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

“M’kay. I have to go, I’m hogging the loo-”

“No, Jemma, stay there until I get there-” But she had already hung up.

 

It took him only about twenty minutes to get to the bar from his flat, but he was hurrying, previous irritation with Jemma forgotten in his haste and worry. Crowds still trickled through the front door; after all, it was still considerably early for the club scene. He attracted several stares as he pushed his way through the line to the door, jeans and hoodie even more disheveled than his normal state. A burly man put up an arm as Fitz tried to push his way into the club and leaned in to yell over the music, “What do you think you’re doing?”

Fitz’s glare was dark as he retorted, “Relax. I’m just here t’ pick someone up.”

“So is everyone in line.”

“To bring someone home.”

“Still a no.”

Fitz clenched his hands. “Look! I’ve got a friend in there and she’s in some sort o’ trouble and she called me to get her ou’. Please.”

After a moment, the doorman dismissed him with an impatient wave and Fitz ducked his way inside the crowded and rowdy club. Dizzying lights were the only illumination in the dark and cramped space. The air was heavy and stale with the smells of alcohol and the sweat of people dancing. If Jemma was here, she would be panicking at every dark corner. Unsure how to find her, he began weaving through the space, hoping to snatch even a peek of her. He ignored the stares and drunken jibes at his attire, glancing around for her familiar face.

When he finally did locate her, engaged in a heated conversation with a man hidden mostly in shadow, he did a double take for two reasons. The normally withdrawn and reserved Jemma he was familiar with had apparently shed her skin for the night, leaving behind a dark-eyed, long-legged beauty in a black clubbing dress that revealed a particularly distracting amount of her back. Fitz’s stomach swooped uncomfortably, taking in the black attire and apparent lack of undergarments in a moment and feeling a tightening beneath his belt. However, then he processed just who’s hand was gripping her shoulder too tightly and his jaw stiffened. He pulled close enough to hear the argument.

“-wanted to go home.”

“That’s fine! We can go. But my place is really so much closer than yours and I would hate to see you walk any farther on that ankle…” Ward’s voice was cleverly caring, his hand digging obviously painfully into her shoulder.

Fitz stepped forward, angling himself as a wedge between Jemma and Ward. “No.”

Ward’s eyebrows rose as he took in the sight of Fitz before him and his grip tightened on Jemma’s shoulder as she whimpered slightly. “Did you call him? I thought you wanted to get away from him tonight.”

“Let go of her, Ward. Now.”

Ward’s smile was predatory. “Well listen to the big man. Came all the way here for her did you? I’m more than enough to take care of her.” His eyes shifted back to Jemma though his words were still for Fitz. “She doesn’t want you here.”

Jemma’s eyes were shining with tears now and Fitz reached out to wrench Ward’s arm off of her. “Even when she was mad at me, she still called me to come and get her away from you,” he hissed.

Raising his hands in mock surrender, Ward smiled again. “I don’t know why you’re being so aggressive. I’ve done nothing wrong here. I care about Jemma. I think she’s truly talented. With my help, everyone could see it.” He smiled back at Jemma.

Without thinking, Fitz reached out and punched the much larger man, feeling the satisfying impact against Ward’s jaw. “That’s for Skye.”

Brushing blood away from his split lip, Ward smile broadened, quite a macabre sight with the red across his teeth. “How is she by the way? Maybe I should stop by the office and say hi. It’s been a while.”

Before Fitz could move to respond again, he heard the unmistakable sound of a gun cocking beside his ear. Jolting around, he turned to see Jemma with a face of darkened fury leveling a weapon over Fitz’s shoulder at Ward. _Where the hell had she pulled that from? What the fuck was she doing with a gun?_ Nervously, Fitz glanced around, but in the shadowed corner of the darkened club, no one was sparing the group a glance. “Uhh… Jemma? Wha’ the hell are you doing?”

“That was _you_?” Jemma hissed through her teeth at Ward, hands trembling with fury and nerves. “ _You’re_ the one that Skye’s been talking to me about?”

“Jemma, do you want to _drop the gun_?”

Ward turned his smile to Jemma and offered the same mocking surrender. “I heard you two were becoming friends now. Too bad about that. I’m sure she’s left off talking about my finer qualities.”

“Jemma, _would you put the fucking gun down_?”

“It’s not a gun,” she said, not taking her glare from Ward’s face.

“You’re drunk. Tha’s a gun.”

“He deserves it.”

“I’m not disagreeing with you on tha’ point. But we need to go.”

She looked like she would argue again, but after a moment of her hands shaking, she lowered her hands, tucking the weapon back into an inconspicuous pocket in her purse. With a zip, it was back out of sight and she leveled her dark gaze back on Ward’s face which was still painted with amusement at her display.

“Jemma,” Fitz gently rested a hand on her unhurt shoulder to guide her away. “Let’s go.”

She nodded, tersely, and turned to go but quickly swung back around and punched Ward across the jaw again, knocking herself off balance. “Whoa, whoa.” Fitz caught her as she stumbled in her heels and turned her away from Ward. “We’re leaving.” He leveled a dark stare at Ward as they retreated toward the exit of the club together, supporting Jemma as Ward’s amused expression disappeared in the shadows.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Jemma was quickly sobering up as Fitz guided her through the dark, but still lively, London streets. He directed them towards his flat without a word, jaw firm and clenched. The throbbing in her ankle was definitely worsening as she walked, though her head was beginning to clear. Her ears still rang from the pounding music, but her sight had sharpened and her mind was racing. By the time they reached the stairs to Fitz’s flat, not far from his office, Jemma limped with every step, wincing at every movement. Fitz, however, seemed to have too much on his mind to notice until he saw her stumble to hold onto the gate outside his flat in a brief reprieve from the weight on her foot. He frowned, thinking and then suddenly clenched his hands, remembering. He pinched the bridge of his nose, asking with clenched teeth, “He said something about your ankle. Wha’s wrong with your foot, lass?” He looked up sharply, and she shivered at the darkness in his eyes. “Did he hurt you?”

She glanced down at the ankle, carefully inspecting the increasing swelling. “I fell in the club. Twisted it up properly.”

Fitz looked up at her and gestured in frustration. “And you didn’t feel like saying something?”

“Well you didn’t seem like saying anything!” she retorted. She took in his posture and his clamped jaw. She had thought that he had been angry with Ward on their walk back but… “Wait. You’re angry? With _me_?”

“Yes, yes I am Jemma.”

“Why?”

“Wha’ the fuck were you thinking?” he yelled. “Going _there_? With _him_? After what I said? And why the fuck do you have a gun!?”

“Why does it matter where I go or who I go with! And you told me nothing,” Jemma retorted. “I don’t care what you do with your personal life!”

“It matters when you’re going to freak the fuck out and end up curled up in a corner somewhere, begging me to come get you!”

Jemma glared, angrily. “You didn’t have to come get me.”

“Yes I did.”

“Why?” She tried to put her hands on her hips in a demonstration of defiance, but instantly regretted it and gripped the gate again when her ankle joined the argument.

Fitz glared right back as if this only proved his point. “Because I was wrong; you do trust me. Because you don’t have anyone else. And you’re so fucking stubborn and for whatever reason have decided to let me in and no one else and _I don’t know wha’ to do with you_!”

Her anger deflated and she looked at him, startled. “What do you mean?” His weary and too-knowing stare was somehow worse than his angry glances had been and Jemma felt distinctly uneasy. Perhaps the behaviors she thought she hid so well were not so invisible…

Fitz held up a hand and ironically began counting off on his fingers. “You’re scared of the dark. You seldom sleep. Your hands shake. You wear that damn watch every day!”

She gripped her left wrist, reflexively, and he continued.

“I know for a fact tha’ the only people in your life right now are Skye and me because you don’t answer your parents’ calls, you’re never out with friends, and Skye tells me tha’ she’s worried abou’ you. And yet, here you come parading into my life and changing all my habits and trusting me. _And I don’t understand._ ” Fit had paced himself around, waving his hands around with his keys and running his hands through his hair. “God forbid wha’ would have happened if you’d called Skye to come get you from Ward and then I’m pulling the two of you out of jail or out of the hospital or your bodies out of the river. _And you have a gun!”_

“I’m sorry…” The words came out quieter than she meant and he wondered if he would even hear them, hear her honesty and her brokenness. He turned back towards her in surprise and Jemma’s stomach lurched at the intensity of his blue eyes. “I owe you an explanation. Well, I don’t owe you an explanation, but you certainly deserve one. I don’t know why you and I don’t know why this and I’m sorry. This is a duty and a responsibility that you didn’t ask to bare and I thrust it on you without your consent.” She took a deep breath and steadied herself against the gate. “I’ll explain if you would like.”

Fitz took a deep breath, his eyes trained on the ground and said slowly, “It’s not tha’ I don’t care, Jemma. You know I do.” He glanced up at her. “You’re my friend and fuck professionalism. It’s not tha’ I don’t want to be there and to get those calls and to come haul you away from some dark corner or some aggressive prick. It’s just tha’ I don’t understand. And I feel like for all your trust in me you keep me at an arm’s length.” He sighed. “And I can’t hold you up from there.”

Jemma swallowed and nodded, blinking back tears. She took a careful, painful, deliberate step forward and took his hand. “Okay,” she said softly. “I’ll explain.”

He glanced ruefully at her one-legged stance. “Is that before or after I haul you up the stairs.”

Her eyes closed in gratitude and anticipated relief. “Please.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've realized each of these chapters is going to be dramatically different in length. Whoops.
> 
> Also if this show weren't on cable, Fitz would totally swear this much.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jemma reached out and closed the space between them with a strong hug, pressing her face into his chest while he felt her arms encircle his waist. He sighed and rested his head against hers, wrapping his arms tightly around her shoulders. She smelled of lavender and jasmine, of the sweater fresh from the laundry and the scotch on both their breaths. He hoped she couldn't hear the racing of his heartbeat as he pressed a brief kiss to the top of her head, murmuring roughly, “Wha' are friends for.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where things really start drifting away from the movie plot for a little while, but fear not! There is a lot still to happen in the remaining chapters and I do bring it back around pretty quickly.

 

After some moderately ungraceful carrying of Jemma up to his flat ( _hey, in the movies, the guy never had to go up two flights of stairs)_ Fitz dug around in his closet for something proper for Jemma to wear. He would be sad to see the dress go, but she looked supremely uncomfortable on his couch, trying to nurse a swollen ankle and maintain propriety. After a minute, he emerged from his room and tossed a jumper and some sweatpants in her direction. “Here you go, lass. I’m sorry but I’m not stocked in women’s undergarments.”

Jemma smiled weakly. “I think I’d be more concerned if you were.” She looked uncertainly in the direction of the bathroom.

Fitz shook his head. “I’ll turn around. I don’t think you should be walking on tha’ foot anymore.”

“I walked all the way over here didn’t I,” she noted wryly.

“Yes, well consider this a gesture in making up for my obliviousness.”

“I’m not sure that’s a word.”

“Get changed, Jemma.”

She looked at him and twirled her finger, indicating for him to turn around. He complied and refrained from looking at the window to her reflection, despite his urges. Behind him, he heard her unzip and wriggle out of the dress and it fell to the floor. Fitz swallowed, throat and belt suddenly both too tight.

“Alright, you’re good now.”

He turned and took in the sight of her tucked into the corner of the couch in her usual fashion, sweatpants and jumper both adorably too large for her. With her dark makeup and softly curled hair in his clothes… _Oh no. This was much worse than the dress._

Misinterpreting his likely dazed expression, Jemma tweaked an eyebrow and said, “That bad, huh?”

He shut his mouth with a snap that he hoped wasn’t audible. “Nonsense. They look better on you. I may never be able to wear them again.”

She rolled her eyes but did manage a small grin.

“So…” he began, shifting uncomfortably as he wondered if there was any better way to begin than just launching headlong into her personal backstory.

“Uh-uh,” she shook her head. “I know you have a bottle of scotch here somewhere.”

His mouth twisted into one of his crooked smiles and he clapped his hands against the kitchen doorframe, calling back to her. “Fair enough.” He rummaged in the back of his liquor cabinet for the scotch, pouring them both generous portions over ice. He hesitated, and then dug out a plastic bag, filling that with ice too. Jemma looked a little lost in thought as he entered the room, so he cleared his throat to get her attention as he held out her glass. “Here. Rocks for the booze and rocks for tha’ foot.”

She smiled softly and shifted until her foot was elevated and swaddled in a towel with the makeshift ice pack. Nestling back into the couch, she took a healthy swig of the scotch, wincing when it hit her throat. “Thank you, Fitz”, she finally murmured. He had the impression she meant more than just the drink and ice.

Fitz sighed and ran his hands through his hair again, sitting down on the empty half of the couch and looking at her more seriously. He reached down and pulled up her purse, opening it up to reveal the pocket that held her concealed weapon. “Alrigh’, Ms. Simmons. Care to explain the gun in your purse?”

Her smile faded, replaced by a tired expression. Carefully, she set down her drink on his coffee table and pulled out the weapon with practiced ease. “This isn’t a gun. And that’s not my name.”

Fitz furrowed his brow. “M’kay I’m already lost.”

The cartridge of bullets popped out into her waiting hand. “See?” she asked, holding it out for him to see. “These aren’t normal bullets. They’re too large- they’d be too slow. And they’re bright blue.” She popped the cassette back in and handed the weapon to Fitz, who took it reluctantly, handling it as if it might bite him. “You have to go through an extraordinary amount of hoops to get a gun registered in London, but fortunately in a case such as mine, stun weapons are a bit more lenient. And of course, my father’s name pulls some weight around a little bit. That’s what this is. It’s a stun weapon. No more lethal than a Taser.”

“Those can be lethal…”

“Yes, but I know this one isn’t,” she said frankly. “I designed it. It’s the dendrotoxin gun from my novel. Well,” she frowned, creases forming between her eyebrows and drawing Fitz’s attention back to her face, “as close as I could get it in reality. It still needs some work. And of course, I didn’t want to put my design in there word for word. Then anyone could steal it.” She set the weapon back on the table and picked up her glass again.

Fitz frowned. “I’m sorry… wha’? You expect me t’ believe you designed this?”

Her earnest eyes stared back at him and he felt his stomach lurch. “Yes?”

“With wha’ science degree? You’re a novelist.”

A soft, almost sad smile stretched across her face. “With a degree in biochemistry… My work in dendrotoxins was my thesis in graduate school. I designed and formulated this weapon and the chemical bullets inside.”

He shook his head, confused. “Then why are you trying to publish a novel? For tha’ matter, why bother writing at all?”

Her smile became thin, almost painful. “I still love science. It’s where my true allegiance is. Not with my father, not with this book…” She shook her head, fingers teasing lines in the condensation of her glass. “It’s hard to explain. I was a girl with a million questions and science was the only place where I could find answers. My father always found it inappropriate but I pursued it anyway. It’s where I’m happiest. It’s where I would be if I didn’t have to write.”

Fitz frowned at her word choice. “Have to?”

She hesitated before answering. “Science is lonely,” she said softly. “I never worked with a partner. You’ve already noted my social inadequacies at making and keeping acquaintances. The same can be said of science partners. So when you’re alone and working your mind has time to play. And gradually the darkness will come out and demand attention.” She cleared her throat uncomfortably. “Up until about a year ago I worked in a lab.” She frowned. “Actually, come to think of it, I still technically own lab space there I’ve just been banned from it for a while?”

“Why?”

Jemma cleared her throat again and her eyes darted away from his gaze. “About a year ago, a series of … incidents… convinced the directors of the lab that I might benefit from some time away. They had my access restricted for a year with promises to keep my name on the space as long as I sought help and a way to … deal with things. I had to find something else to do, so I wrote to get it out. And I craved the validation that publication could bring me.

“Simmons isn’t the name I was born with. It’s a name I took when I grew old enough to be able to change it.” She took a deep breath and Fitz had the impression that she was steeling herself, as if bracing against a storm. “I was born Jemma Harker. Now that name might not mean much to you… You were my age when it hit the news and children at that age don’t care much about the news. Moreover, I don’t know how deeply it was covered in Scotland…” Her eyes flitted up to his and back down to her hands, now firmly clenched around her glass. They were shaking. “Ambassador Phillip Harker is my father. The ambassador to the United States?”

“Alrigh’,” he nodded seriously, not certain where this was going.

Her knuckles were white against the glass as she took an unsteady sip. He found himself worrying that the tumbler would shatter in her hand and end this night in hospital. She coughed a little and set the glass down on the table again, out of harms way as her hands fluttered. “I was ei-eight. Playing in a park after school waiting to be picked up. A m-man said that he, that he was sent by my father to come collect me.” She glanced up at Fitz. “That wasn’t that unusual, see. He was often too busy for me. But, when I drew close, the man, he grabbed me and held a knife to my throat and told me to be quiet. Put me in the back of a car. Locked me in a basement, handcuffed to some old pipes.”

Fitz glanced down at the wide-banded watch on her trembling hand, feeling a sinking sensation in his gut.

“They wanted to ransom me back to my father which,” she laughed humorously, “was stupid. He told them no. That he wouldn’t pay.”

_“Christ,_ Jemma.” Fitz swore. He stared at her, horrified, nauseated, and furious.

“The kidnappers, well, when they found out that he wouldn’t pay they just left.” She shrugged softly and sudden her words sounded choked, as if her throat was swollen. “I guess they figured I was good as dead where no one could find me. Without having to actually kill me themselves.”

Fitz leaned forward, pinching his nose with his hand and keeping his eyes squeezed shut.

“I, uh-” Jemma coughed, trying to clear her throat. “I tried, you know? To get out. Screamed and clawed at the handcuffs and pipes.” She trailed off, lost in thought. After a moment, she picked up the rest of the glass and downed it.

He didn’t press her. His mind was racing with images of a tiny Jemma screaming until her voice was hoarse, scratching at the handcuffs and at the walls until her fingers bled. He took a deep breath to try to steady himself and eventually found his voice. “You don’t have to tell me anymore…” he said roughly. “If you need to, tha’s fine. But you don’t owe me anything. Not even an explanation.”

She glanced up at him, her normally bright eyes shockingly dark and intense. “It’s why I write, Fitz. It needs to come out and that’s why I’ve been put on probation at the lab and that’s why the story is so dark. It needs to come out or it just stays inside.” She smiled, bitterly. “It won’t stay inside though. It comes out one way or another. I freaked out at the lab and broke a bunch of equipment at my bench and spilled some materials that required containment.” The knuckles on her hands were white as she clenched them together to still the shaking. “Until I managed to bring my panic attacks under control, I was a hazard in the lab. They offered me a year.”

Fitz stared at her changing expressions. So many emotions played across her face. Bitterness, regret, self-loathing, grief. He wanted to reach over and wipe the pain away from her face with a gentle brush of his fingers. He clenched his own hands together in order to prevent them from reaching for her of their own accord. He wasn’t certain of anything at the moment; his position felt as precipitous as standing on the barely frozen pond back home at the beginning of the spring thaw. Physical contact at the wrong time may only make things worse. So he remained still, his mind racing, imagining instead a Jemma outside of the world he had known and in her proper environment behind a microscope with a notebook in hand and a smile across her face. “You miss it?” he asked gently.

Her eyes were brimming with tears as she smiled and nodded briefly. “Very much.”

“A year from when?”

She frowned, thoughtfully. “From December.”

“So… a matter of weeks,” he said softly. “Tha’s not tha’ long.”

Jemma nodded and offered him a brief smile. “I know. It’s not. But I don’t know that I’m going to be any better at dealing with everything when I return.”

He extended his hand across the couch, offering her the chance to take it. Her fingers wove into his, cold against his warm touch. Fitz’s heart murmured and he swallowed. “So we figure it out. You and me. Together.” The tear-,filled smile she offered with a squeeze of her fingers against his conveyed her thanks and he added, “One way or another, we’ll get you back in tha’ lab.”

She reached out and closed the space between them with a strong hug, pressing her face into his chest while he felt her arms encircle his waist. He sighed and rested his head against hers, wrapping his arms tightly around her shoulders. She smelled of lavender and jasmine, of the sweater fresh from the laundry and the scotch on both their breaths. He hoped she couldn't hear the racing of his heartbeat as he pressed a brief kiss to the top of her head, murmuring roughly, “Wha’ are friends for.”

 

* * *

 

 

Jemma woke up, nestled snugly into the corner of Fitz’s couch, to the sound of someone working in the kitchen. It was a familiar sound, one of being a little girl loved by her mother, long before any of the horror. Sleepily, she peeled one eye open to investigate the source of the noise, pulling a blanket away from her face. She smiled. A distinctly rumpled Fitz was working through his small kitchen, humming softly to himself and snapping his fingers and pointing when he thought of something he needed. “What are you doing?” she asked, sleepy voice amused.

Fitz glanced up, his hair ruffled on the side. Jemma wondered how he had managed to sleep in that chair. “Well,” he said roughly, failing at hiding a grin. “You can't just drop a bomb like tha’ last night and not expect me to grumpily mother you.” He brought over a mug that was steaming with the scent of cinnamon. He handed it to her with a rough flourish and pointed. “Drink.”

“Is that what this is? Grumpy mothering?”

“Yes it is,” he called over his shoulder, heading back to the kitchen. “Blueberries or chocolate chips in your pancakes?”

“Both.”

“Both? You're pushing it.”

She laughed and relished the lightness it caused across her chest; she felt better. She watched in silence for a while as he worked, rinsing blueberries and humming to himself again. He looked so… casual. If it weren't for his response last night, she wouldn't have known that he knew at all. “Why are you being so nonchalant about this?” she finally asked.

“Hmm?”

“About what I told you last night.”

“Oh.” Pans clattered as he maneuvered her griddle out of the cupboard. “Do you remember what I said to you before? About you worshipping your pain?”

She nodded slowly, eyes wide. He straightened up and wiped his hands on a navy dish towel, looking at her seriously.

“Well I realized I phrased it wrong. What I meant is tha’ you revere your pain and you hold it close because you believe it is the gospel truth that you deserve it. Tha’ you're not enough for something better or something. You reject the real truth tha’ Skye and I see.”

“The real truth?”

Fitz leaned back against the counter, coffee cup in one hand and dish towel slung over his shoulder in the perfect rumpled image of Scottish domesticity. “Tha’ you're more than tha’ Jemma. You're more than,” he gestured with his coffee cup, “all tha’ you told me last night. You're a daring and brilliant, beautiful and occasionally confusing woman who is driving me mad, holding out the las’ chapter of what promises to be a bestselling first novel from a shining new novelist and squirreling away many ingenious new biological inventions of a brilliant scientist.” His ears were tinted pink, despite his nonchalance. He was almost over-playing the casualness, she thought. He was serious, but clearly unused to complimenting people so. “And I think you know it, too,” he added with a half-smile. “Tha’ you deserve and are worth and are capable of so much more. Because the dark ninja temptress who almost rightfully shot Ward in the face las’ night wasn't doing it for herself. She was doing it because she loves her friend. I just think you need someone around to remind you the real truth on occasion.”

Despite the tears swimming in her eyes, Jemma couldn't help but giggle as she wiped her face with her hands and hugged her cup of tea close. “Dark ninja temptress?”

He gave a wry grin. “To put it bluntly, I'm surprised tha’ dress was legal. It's unfair the effect it has.”

Laughing, and acutely aware of the blush on her cheeks and warm press on her heart, she retorted, “That’s kind of the point, Fitz.”

“It's unfair is all…” He shrugged and returned to mixing with an ease that suggested a lot of time in kitchens past. Jemma watched him contentedly, a sleepy smile on her face. He looked quite nice behind the counter, if truth be told. There was something very appealing in the sleep-rumpled image of him, sleeves rolled up and cooking her breakfast. Her mind conjured images she had memorized of her first two encounters with him when she had caught him shirtless. Though she had kept her composure at the time, she did occasionally find herself dwelling on the sculpted planes of his chest and the structured form of his forearms. Occasionally as they worked together, her eyes would wander to his arms and she would lose track of the conversation. She imagined what Fitz shirtless and making her breakfast with rumpled hair might look like. She let herself sink into that fantasy for a minute.

“So,” she finally called, reluctantly pulling herself from her fantasies. “About that last chapter…”

“Nope. No writing. Don’t even think about it.”

She looked up from the laptop within arm’s reach, startled. “Uhh… What?”

Fitz gesticulated at her with the spatula. “You had a big night. Confessing your deep dark past. Almost shooting friend’s ex-boyfriends. We are taking a day off of work.”

“Really?” she asked, skeptically. “After how much you rode my arse to get this thing done?”

He coughed, ears reddening, though if it was because of the phrasing or because of guilt, she wasn’t sure. “Yeah, well. Not today. Today is a fun day. You need it. I need it. Absolutely no writing.” He walked over to her with a plate of hot blueberry-chocolate chip pancakes. “And it starts with pancakes.”

She smiled and took the plate, eagerly. “All the best days start with pancakes.”

 

* * *

 

 

The hysterical edge had disappeared off of Jemma’s laughter as the day progressed; something Fitz was increasingly happy to notice. Where at first this morning she had seemed reserved and a little wild around the edges, now the tension in her shoulders had eased and her smile was genuine. Perhaps they both had needed a day off more than he had first thought.

They ducked into an apartment doorway, trying to seek shelter under the overhang from the sudden downpour of cold rain, both laughing breathlessly. When the first drops had started, Fitz was concerned that the chill air would be detrimental to both of their health. However, Jemma simply tilted her head back into the falling rain and smiled, surprising Fitz as she spun. He watched her, enchanted, as she spun and giggled, seeing her truly relaxed possibly for the first time. After that a taxi had honked them both out of the middle of the street and they had stumbled down the sidewalk together, laughing and hand in hand.

Now as they waited out the worse of the rain under some stranger’s doorway, he found that he couldn’t stop staring at her. Her hair had gathered in messy damp strands, plastered to the pale skin of her neck and face. Her eyes were bright with merriment- the evening streetlamps reflecting in their depths as they began to pop to life along the street. She still smiled, looking out on the autumn rain.

“Jemma…” he murmured, eyes on her lips. He realized he had been holding his breath, looking at her.

Her eyes flickered over to his face and her hands fluttered briefly, nervously, in his own. He could see her pulse, steadily beating at the edge of her jaw and throat and reached reflexively to brush his fingers across the skin there. She stared up at him with wide, still eyes.

He took a hesitant step forward and, when she made no move to stop him, ducked his head to kiss her gently. His lips brushed hers at first, nervous to make a wrong move but unable to stop himself from touching her. She took the smallest of steps forward, making a small noise of surprise in the back of her throat, and he pressed his lips to hers in earnest this time, a sudden rush of heat warming him through his damp clothes.

The porch light above them suddenly flicked on as the door by which they were taking refuge opened. Fitz stepped back from Jemma instantly, a blush rising on both of their cheeks. The old woman gave them a suspicious and knowing expression but said nothing as she squeezed her way between the two of them and opened her umbrella, heading down the sidewalk.

Fitz bit his lip, watching her slowly totter off into the darkness, and slowly turned back to Jemma. She too was worrying her bottom lip with her teeth, a blush still strong across her cheeks. He longed to brush his fingers across the freckles scattered like stars there, but held back when he saw her sheepish expression.

“It’s probably about time for me to be getting home.”

He nodded, swallowing hard. “Sure.”

 

 

* * *

 

Jemma slowly woke the next morning, blinking as the events of the last few days gradually washed over her. She’d certainly been busy these last few days… Nearly shooting people in clubs. Confessing her whole back story to Fitz. Being kissed by him on some poor woman's porch. She wriggled down further beneath the comforter, feeling her cheeks flame. He had kissed her.

The look in his eyes before he had pressed his lips to hers had been dazed, almost punch drunk. The rain had gathered his short hair into damp bronze curls and in the dim glow of the streetlights, his eyes were more navy than their normal sky blue. Her breath had caught in her chest; she had felt numb by the closeness of him. The rain glistening on his leather jacket. The smell of him- clean laundry and leather and cloves- had enveloped her in the small space until she too had felt intoxicated. His hand had drawn a line of fire down her jaw as he leaned in and when he kissed her… Jemma turned her face into her pillow as if to drown out the inappropriate thoughts that had arisen in her mind then and rapidly flooded back to her now. The weight of dark eyes, the scent of him, the feel of a leather jacket on bare skin. Underneath her blankets, Jemma shivered.

It was enough that he had been so receptive, so supportive of her and of her past. His compliments the morning before wrapped around her like a warm embrace and she felt her heart constrict for Fitz and Skye both. It was more than enough that he had come to the club, in his anger and hers, to get her. He was a barely contained storm when it came to Ward, and with good reason. Altogether, Fitz was already more than she could have asked for.

She felt nervous, exhilarated, and a little fearful. She had only just let him in close enough to hear her story and as much as the memory of his kiss warmed her to her bones, she didn’t know what to do with it. Certainly she had had brief romances, little dalliances in the last few years, but they had all fizzled out when she couldn’t open up to them. They hadn’t been her friends so they couldn’t stay her lovers. But Fitz… he knew her story now. He was her friend, and the closest relationship she had held in a long while, save Skye. Could she risk that now? So quickly?

She sighed and reluctantly peeled back the covers to reveal the early winter light pouring in through the windows. Regardless of how she might or might not feel about her publisher, she had priorities; it had been an embarrassingly long time since she had even touched the novel. She sat up and dug around for her slippers beneath the ledge of her bed with her toes. Right now, with everything that was happening, with everything that had come to light, she could use a little comforting familiarity.

The document was open, as always, as she woke her laptop from sleep. She offered it a minute to putter to life as she habitually made herself a cup of tea, humming to herself softly. Nearly all of the revisions on the remainder of the novel were completed. There were only small tweaks to be made on a few nit-picky things that the two of them had encountered. That left the last chapter. It was an unconventional way of writing, to be sure, but Fitz had said the last chapter had to go and she was, unfortunately, growing to agree with him. She took her tea over to the table and frowned as she sat down, staring at the waiting blank space. So she just had to find the right ending. She took a sip of tea and carefully set her mug down on a coaster. Her fingers reached out over the keys…

…and she drew a blank. Frowning, she stared at the cursor on the screen as the line blinked at her, sounding in her head like feet tapping in impatience, fingernails on a counter in annoyance. She glanced over the last few chapters, started the first sentence a few times, and absolutely nothing came to her.

She sat, stunned, staring at the computer screen for the better part of an hour. Never in her life did she encounter writers block; she had thought it a romanticized concept up until this minute. In her experience, words and stories always felt ready to leap out of her, in an effort to leach out some of what she carried inside. She had been right with what she had said to Fitz: she needed to write. She had always needed to write. And it had never failed to heed her call before.

Unnerved, she sat back and held her now-cooled mug cupped in her hands. What did people do in this situation? She quickly searched “writer’s block” on the internet, but with a hiss of distaste, shut the page down after only a few minutes. ‘Do something else’ and ‘shake things up’ were about the least helpful recommendations she could think of. She frowned, staring out at the gray winter sky. She didn’t need help with an idea- she already had a million of them, sewn together brilliantly under the careful care of herself and Fitz. She didn’t need to brainstorm or word-vomit. She just honestly didn’t have a clue how the story ended.

Huffing in irritation, Jemma pushed back from the desk and pulled out her phone, quickly dialing. “Skye! Would you possibly feel like coming over? I could use some company.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cheers if you caught my homage to agentverbivore's Wait Out the Sun! (If you haven't read her crime AU, you are missing out.)
> 
> Also there wasn't really a good place to end this chapter, so you don't have much of a cliffhanger. Whoops. 
> 
> Please be nice, there are parts of this chapter I'm really proud of and parts that I'm pretty meh about.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jemma frowned at the woman sitting and swinging her legs from the counter. Her feet were clad in heavy black utility boots that her black pants were tucked into. Wait. Skye was wearing black from head to toe and a self-satisfied grin on her face. “Skye,” she asked slowly, “why are you wearing combat gear?”  
> Skye cocked her head. “Now that’s a better question.”  
> Jemma narrowed her eyes and practically hissed, “Daisy?”  
> “In the flesh!” Skye frowned, thoughtfully. “Well… sort of.” She grinned again and gestured to herself. “What do you think?”  
> “I think I’m talking to my protagonist…”

“You’re stuck, huh?”

Jemma sighed and nodded. “I’m afraid I am. And it’s quite new to me actually.”

Skye snorted as she took a sip of tea, perched on a stool and leaning against the counter in Jemma’s kitchen. “Then you’re one of a kind. I don’t know anyone who doesn’t deal with writer’s block and I have access to a lot of writers, well _hopeful_ writers, at the office.”

“How do people usually… I don’t know… combat it?”

Skye shrugged briefly. “I don’t know. It’s kind of different from person to person. I knew a guy once who insisted on wearing a blindfold until he came to his senses. No pun intended. And there was a girl who used to come round the office all the time who told me that she would write nude when she felt blocked.”

“That’s not happening.”

“I didn’t think so,” Skye laughed, brushing dark hair out of her face. “I don’t know honestly. I’m sorry, I’m not much help.”

“I’m just… I’m … well _we’re_ so close. It’s nearly done it just needs a final chapter.”

“That really is a bizarre problem to have…”

“Thanks.”

Skye laughed again. “No! I mean it. I’ve never heard of someone having a problem with the end of a story before. You have all the hard stuff figured out already.” She held up her mug in a mock salute. “You’re one of a kind.”

That cracked a wry smile out of Jemma. “So Fitz keeps telling me.”

Skye chuckled over her mug. “Fitz warned me, actually, when he heard I was coming over.”

Jemma frowned, uncertainly. “He warned you? About what?” Her mind nervously skittered over the memories of the last few days and what he might have said. She trusted his discretion, but it wasn’t her story he was worried about him sharing. She needed time to feel out her emotions about Fitz.

Skye snorted. “That yellow mug of yours. He told me you gave him quite the lecture when he used it by accident, not knowing it for the priceless relic that it is.” Her grin was twisted in amusement.

Jemma could feel a blush chase its way across her cheeks. “Yes, I’m afraid I did.” Her fingers wrapped protectively around the mug. “It’s special to me.”

“That much is clear.” In Skye’s eyes was an unspoken curious question, but she was adept as Fitz at not prying with Jemma. Fortunately for her, Jemma had been rather free with information this weekend.

“My mum gave it to me. The day she passed away.”

Skye frowned, dark eyes lined with concern. “I’m sorry, Jemma. I wouldn’t think that would make you use it every day though.”

“No,” Jemma said softly, wistfully. “It was a good memory. She gave me a mug and a box of tea with a wink and a kiss on the forehead. She told me I was her whole world.”

There was a moment of silence. “What happened to her?” Skye asked gently.

Jemma glanced back up at her companion from the swirls of steam curling off of her mug of cinnamon tea. “There was a bus accident. It was silly, really. My father had a car for us to go wherever we needed but my mum refused sometimes, saying that she liked to be a part of London and not separated from it.” She took a sip, thoughtfully. “I’m not sure my father ever forgave her.”

“For taking the bus?”

“For dying.”

A small warm hand reached across the table and settled gently on Jemma’s. She looked up into a pair of understanding and surprisingly weary eyes. She remembered again why her protagonist tended to take on some of Skye’s traits.

“I’m sorry, Jemma. I know it was a long time ago. And I never knew my parents. But all of that, it’s a part of who we are and just because it was a long time ago doesn’t mean that we feel it any less.” She smiled. “I won’t even begin to list the strange things I have from the different homes I lived in. In comparison, your mug is completely normal.”

Jemma cracked a small smile and squeezed Skye’s hand in return. “You don’t have to tell me. Fitz explained the hula dancer on your desk at the office.”

Skye groaned and Jemma chuckled, raising her mug to her lips once more.

 

* * *

 

 

Monday morning brought no influx of inspiration, so a rather moody Jemma made her way to the coffee shop at the end of the street, hoping that the change of scenery might inspire something to shift. She had asked, or rather begged, Skye not to tell Fitz that she was stuck, and reluctantly her friend had agreed. Still, Fitz would be back at his office today and would likely message her. She had to make some headway.

With a hot chocolate and a scone ordered, Jemma sought out a relatively secluded table. She had just begun to set up her computer and notebook when an all-too-familiar voice addressed her.  
“Jemma! What an unexpected pleasure.”

She glanced up, startled. Ward stood before her, a paper cup of coffee in one hand and a notebook in the other. She was pleased to see that his lip was still split from where Fitz had punched him the other night. She didn’t smile in response. “Ward.”

“You know, I forgot to tell you what a wonderful time I had the other night. Or rather, I didn’t have the chance to tell you what with you being whisked away and all.”

She stared up at him levelly. “I asked him to come. And now I’m asking you to leave.”

He chuckled and the sound made her wince. “Jemma, we both know that I can do so much more for your novel than he can.”

“Probably,” she conceded. “But it’s my choice.” The coffee shop was filling up faster now as the late morning crowd searched out a cup of coffee against the winter wind. Jemma pointedly turned away from Ward to watch for her order and almost yelped as she nearly collided with Skye.

“Excuse me,” Skye smiled and winked, weaving between Jemma and Ward and heading back for the bathroom.

“I’m just saying, you need me,” Ward continued, as if he hadn’t even seen Skye. Jemma frowned. Skye had a restraining order placed against Ward; there was no way that she would let herself be that close to him. If she had seen him she probably wouldn’t have even entered the shop, let alone pushed herself between them.

“Excuse me,” Jemma echoed hastily, and then practically sprinted to the bathroom. She locked the single bathroom door closed behind her and then turned to Skye who was sitting, perched on the bathroom counter with a wry grin on her face. “Skye?”

Skye waved her hand in a gesture that indicated “ish”. “Eh, sorta. I mean, that’s not what you call me, but it’s certainly what I prefer to go by. Even if you deny it.”

“I’m lost. Skye, it’s a Monday… shouldn’t you be at school? You know, teaching?”

Skye furrowed her eyebrows and smirked. “Dude, I’m not a teacher.”

“Uh yes you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m really not.”

Jemma sighed in frustration, crossing her arms. “Yes, you are, Skye. And I’m really not in the mood for games right now!”

“Also, still not Skye.”

Jemma frowned at the woman sitting and swinging her legs from the counter. Her feet were clad in heavy black utility boots that her black pants were tucked into. Wait. Skye was wearing black from head to toe and a self-satisfied grin on her face. “Skye,” she asked slowly, “why are you wearing combat gear?”

Skye cocked her head. “Now that’s a better question.”

Jemma narrowed her eyes and practically hissed, “ _Daisy?”_

“In the flesh!” Skye frowned, thoughtfully. “Well… sort of.” She grinned again and gestured to herself. “What do you think?”

“I think I’m talking to my protagonist…”

“I prefer heroine… but I also prefer to go by the name of the person you based me off of, but hey. Instead I end up sounding like a fifties house-wife.”

Jemma shook her head. “I really don’t believe this.”

Skye smirked. “Then call me.”

“Alright,” Jemma said indignantly, pulling out her phone, “I will.” She dialed Skye’s cell and stared at Skye (or was it Daisy?) who was looking curiously around and swinging her feet against the sink pipes with a dull clang.

Skye’s bright voice picked up the phone. “Hey Jemma! What’s up?”

Jemma cleared her throat. “Skye… where are you right now?”

“Eating lunch with Fitzapold. He was asking after you when he heard we were together yesterday. He seems oddly nervous.” Jemma heard Skye murmur who she was talking to to a faint Scottish brogue. “Why?” Skye asked curiously.

She frowned. “Shouldn’t you be at school?”

“Nah, too many of the little shits caught that virus that’s been going around so they called off school for the day. What’s up?” Skye paused. “You okay?”

Jemma laughed falsely and winced, the sound much too tinny and bright to be authentic. She knew Skye would hear right through it. “Oh, no I’m fine. I just thought I saw you somewhere else.”

From her perch on the sink, Daisy grinned.  
“Alright,” Skye said, doubtfully. “Oh, are we still on for Thursday?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Jemma replied and hung up the phone, staring at Daisy who was now sporting a shit-eating grin. “What are you doing here?”

Daisy nodded seriously. “It’s a very intense narrative. I personally have suffered gun-shot wounds, alien power obelisks, a lifetime of being an orphan followed by meeting my two murderous and psychotic parents, and two bad boyfriends to date.” Daisy tilted her head and looked in the direction of the bathroom door. “One of whom is described suspiciously accurately to that guy out there.”

Jemma winced. “Yeah, sorry about all that.”

Daisy’s face brightened. “No, no please don’t apologize. I think it’s going to make me a stronger person in the end.”

“Yes… the end…” Jemma murmured, considering quickly. “Don’t you think it’s time for you to scurry along and go finish that up for us?”

Daisy hopped off the counter and stood, eye to eye, with Jemma. “Oh, no. That’s not my job. That’s what you’re for. Only you can’t seem to do it.” She cocked her head. “Why can’t you finish it, Jemma? What are you afraid of?” Smirking, she turned and walked out of the bathroom, leaving to Jemma to stare at the place of counter where she had sat.

After a moment, she looked up to the mirror with a start. Written with large, loopy letters in a dry-erase marker that had been haphazardly disposed of beneath was scribbled, “Where’s our happy ending?”

 

* * *

 

If for the next few weeks Jemma seemed quiet, it was understandable, Fitz thought. In the days following her revelation to him, she became thoughtful and almost distant at times. He would catch her losing track of what he was saying or staring out the window, lost in thought. He let it pass though. No doubt talking with him about it had dug up some unpleasant memories. He didn’t press her to write. In fact, as weeks passed, it became easier to ignore writing all together. Occasionally he would ask after the last chapter and she would distractedly tell him that it was coming along. He trusted her.

And the last thing he wanted to do was push her.

It was easy sometimes to tell himself that she was quiet because of her revelations and not because of him kissing her the following day. She had seemed to reciprocate, but on some afternoons when he would catch her staring distantly out of her flat window, he couldn’t help but doubt. She had made no attempt to establish physical contact since and so he drew his cues from her. But he couldn’t help but feel almost subconscious pulls to want to draw her near, hold her close, to reach for her hand. He felt tethered to her.

He was starting to have trouble sleeping again. On nights that they didn’t keep her normal odd hours, he would lie awake in his flat, eyes wide and staring in the darkened room. His pulse would thrum within him as he tried to mask or dismiss his thoughts. He imagined her, content and sleeping and wearing any variety of clothing beside him, stretched out like a sleeping cat. He could almost smell the lavender of her hair and remembering it would drive him to sit up in bed and rub his hands through his hair in frustration. Often on those nights, he would end up back at his desk in the semidarkness, trying to block her out of his mind with work.

But it didn’t work.

Every heroine described, every sensuous look, every sweep of hair, every peal of laughter, he thought of her. When even the words started to sound in her voice, he would groan and go take a shower.

So if she seemed slightly preoccupied while they were together, it was alright. So was he. It became easier and easier to forget the reasons for their interactions as the manuscript saw no attention from its landing place on the coffee table in her apartment. Instead, they simply spent their days together. Sometimes he would bring other work, to pretend to be doing something other than simply soaking in her presence. Sometimes he would cook for her, as she would seem too distracted or preoccupied to remember to eat. Sometimes they would simply watch a movie or the telly. She would curl into her corner as normal and if the antics of the Doctor coaxed another laugh out of her, he would relax.

Sometimes she would enter these manic modes where she would be surrounded by papers and her laptop and half-forgotten cups of tea and missed meals. Her eyes would be heavy behind her glasses and she would seem surprised when he addressed her. He didn’t ask what she was working on; he assumed it was the last chapter. This was often her modus operandi for writing, so he let her be. But he did insist on more times where she stop her writing and they do something else for a while.

Slowly, they began to exercise her demons. Truthfully, he hadn’t even noticed until about a week after her revelation when he watched her hover at the doorway of a darkened room before gritting her teeth and walking into it. Even if she practically scampered back out, even if her posture was so stiff he thought she might snap, he saw it and was proud of her. It was unspoken, but they both knew then that she was ready to push back.

He rarely set the challenges. He never truly knew how far to push her, and he dreaded pushing her too far so instead he simply was present. While they worked individually, he would sometimes turn off a light and feel her knee-jerk reaction. He would look questioningly at her and she would nod that it was okay and after a few minutes, she would relax into the semidarkness. He would never allow her to push herself when she was alone though. She was incredibly strong, but he was fearful of what would happen if she might snap alone.

One day as she sipped her morning tea and Fitz groused over his cup of coffee, he noticed something and froze. Her sleeve slipped down as she drank from the mug, revealing a bare wrist where there was always a specially-made leather watch. The skin normally covered by that band was matted with pink mottled scar-tissue in a ring around her wrist. Her memento of her attempts to escape her imprisonment. When his eyes flickered up to her face, he saw she was watching him, attempting to read his expression. Not knowing how else to respond, he nodded slowly and returned to his coffee.

 

* * *

 

 

It was almost a month to the day when he had first found her at the club and she had told her story that she managed to stun him by asking that he accompany her to a club later that week.

“Excuse me?” he spluttered out, through a mouthful of coffee. Jemma sounded purposeful, but she was wringing the palm of one hand with the thumb of another. It was a habit that she had picked up from him and he felt his chest grow oddly tight.

“I want to do it, Fitz.”

“Cause it went so well the las’ time.”

“Well, I’m not going with Grant. I’m going with you! I trust you.”

Fitz took a deep breath and looked up at her in confusion. “Why do you want to do this? I don’t get it, Jemma.”

“I want to challenge myself.” She had a steely look in her eye that he recognized from arguments past when she was ready to dig her heels in and hold her ground.

“But a club? Tha’s literally the worst place for you to be. Crowds of strangers. Darkness. Loud noises. Lots of physical contact.” His mouth went a bit dry.

“Which is why I want to do it. Look, I know it’s going to be hard. But I think that if I can ignore all that, it might also stop feeling that way.” She sighed. “I’m tired of being haunted by my demons. And I know you’ve seen me doing better recently. I’m starting to feel free, really, for the first time and for whatever reason that’s only making me realize how leashed I’ve been. It’s as if I didn’t know the restraints were there until I started to remove them.” She turned to his office window and stared out at the overcast London day. “Maybe if I stop seeing myself as wounded then we can all stop acting like I am.” She looked back to him. “I’m so tired of this being my life.”

Fitz was quiet for a moment. “Then we’ll go.”

Her eyes darted up to his.

“But,” he interrupted her before she could speak. “We’re not going to be stupid about it. We’re not going back to tha’ shite place. Can you agree tha’ if you’re trying to ignore all tha’ and have fun with it tha’ we not go to the dingiest hole in London?”

She nodded. “You know a place?”

“Yeah. It’s much more up your ally. Lighting won’t be such a challenge so while it’s dim there aren’t dark corners. And the music doesn’t suck.” He smiled wryly at her. “I think you’re crazy to want to do this so soon but if you’re asking, I’m in.”

The smile she gave him was worth it all. It lit up the room as she grinned and threw herself into a surprising hug. He caught her warm weight with a grin, feeling almost light-headed surrounded by the scent of her hair and her body pressed against his. She leaned her head up and kissed him on the cheek, leaving a burning imprint long after her lips left his skin. “Thank you, Fitz.”

His voice roughed and he nuzzled into her hair. “O’ course, lass.”

 

* * *

 

 

Fitz paced his office restlessly. The details had been finalized and plans had been made; he would pick up Jemma later tonight for their night at the club. As the week had progressed, his sleep was growing more and more restless until the edginess had worked its way into his waking hours too. Skye had observed him all week without comment, but he had caught her evaluating stares in the evening times when she was in the office after school ended for the day.

Time was going far too slowly.

He attempted to tell himself that his restlessness was merely a side effect of concern over eliminating the last of Jemma’s demons and helping her move on to a life outside of her fear. He tried to say that he was edgy because he hadn’t been sleeping well. He pretended he wasn’t counting down the hours.

But those were all half-lies.

Truthfully, he wondered if she would wear the same dress from her last misadventure to the club. The thought made his stomach swoop unpleasantly and his face flame. He tried to determine what this night would be for them. A work excursion? A friendly quest? A romantic escapade?

He sat down in his office chair with a thump, feeling the warm wind of the heater breathe across his neck as he rested his head in his hands. It was harder and harder to deny the feelings that he felt growing for her in spaces and moments. The bright peal of her surprised laughter. Her burning copper eyes over a morning cup of tea. The way she filled spaces and moved through rooms. Scars, demons, and all. He let out a long sigh.

A soft sniff and the silent sob of a sad cry trailed through the office and Fitz looked up in confusion. He paced into the front office and stopped short at the sight of Skye wiping furiously at tears pouring down her cheeks with a tissue.

“Shite, Skye, are you alrigh’?”

Skye burst out into ragged laughter, scrubbing at her face with the tissue as Fitz looked on, befuddled. “Yeah, I am.”

“…Alrigh’.” He glanced at the papers in her hands. “Is tha’ Jemma’s novel?”

“Yeah. She wanted me to read over it and see if I could help her.”

Fitz frowned. “Help her? Wha’ do you mean?”

Skye’s eyes widened and she quickly gave Fitz a bright smile. “Oh, you know how she is. Wants to make sure everything is absolutely perfect and have another set of eyes and all that.”

“Tha’ does sound unastonishingly like Jemma.” He leaned against the corner of the desk and flipped a few pages. “Wha’ part are you at?”

“The pod scene? The speech about thermodynamics? Damn it’s just…” She took a deep breath and shook her head. “It’s really damn good. And it messes you up.”

He chuckled dryly. “I know wha’ you mean. It’s like a punch to the gut.”

“I feel so bad for Jemma… She must have lived such a shocking life to write like she does…”

Startled, Fitz slipped from his perch on the corner of the desk and frowned at her. “What are you talking about?”

Skye glanced up from the manuscript, eyes red rimmed and wide with surprise. “Oh… well… the lonely page. The endless introspection. The mind plagued by funky thoughts… It’s her writers tic isn’t it? No misery no poetry.”

He felt his mouth twist in a wry grin, knowing that Jemma herself had said something along those lines herself not that long ago. He wasn’t certain how much of Jemma’s story Skye knew, but he imagined there were hints and signs that she could pick up, even if she couldn’t determine the details. Lingering for a moment, he watched with amusement as Skye returned to the manuscript and sniffed, clutching her tissue.

In his office, the phone rang and he shook his head again at Skye in gentle amusement as he wandered over to his desk to pick it up. “Hello?”

“Fitz.”

“My dear Ms. Weaver, how are you?”

“Fitz,” Ann repeated, her tone humorless and worried. A warning.

“I get the feeling tha’ this call isn’t to tell me wha’ a handsome bloke I am.”

She sighed, a heavy and tired surrender. “Fitz, we need to talk.”

He worried his lip with his teeth, pulling out his chair and sinking into it, humor quickly evaporating. “Alrigh’.”

“It’s the Simmons novel, Fitz. You’ve got to finish it. The firm is out of money- with the way that you throw money at all those new authors that never pan out... We’ve got to have something or else we are being purchased.”

A fist clenched around Fitz’s stomach and he ran his hand through his hair, thinking quickly. “This is our only option? I’ve got another few possibilities in line tha’ could be pulled together in the next few months.”

“We don’t have that kind of time.”

His scowl deepened. “Wha’ kind of timeline are we talking?”

“The Simmons novel is close, yes? We need something in the next week.”

He blinked quickly, his voice cracking. “A week. You want the novel finished in a week.” It wasn’t a question.

“You said it was close.”

A breath rushed out of him like a sudden gust of wind as he hissed through his teeth and pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s close but wha’ you’re asking…”

“I’m not asking Fitz. I’m telling you. This is your one chance to keep the firm in our hands and the Simmons book, too. If we sell, she’ll have to find a different publisher.”

He nodded and then uncomfortably cleared his throat when he realized that wouldn’t translate over the phone. “Righ’.”

“Can you do this?”

“Yeah.” He wouldn’t have a choice.

“Make this happen, Fitz.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this one is a little bit short, but the next one is going to be really long so it all balances out. I told you we would meander back into the movie plot territory!
> 
> I was falling asleep while editing this, so forgive any overlooked typos. 
> 
> Also your comments give me life and often make me cry. Thanks for being the best. <3


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She pulled her hands away to brush strands of hair, damp with sweat, out of her smiling face. Her expression was bright and lively, the happiest he’d seen her. He had a sudden desire to capture her there in writing, the colored lights playing against her skin in streaks like war paint, a bright and jubilant smile across her face and her face sprinkled with freckles and laughter lines.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this story had to be rated M for a reason.

Jemma nearly scampered around her flat in her nerves and excitement. She had turned several of the lights in the flat off in order to go ahead and accustom herself to the half-light. Tonight was going to be fun and she wasn’t going to distract from it with the demons that had already stolen so much of her life. Tonight it was her and Fitz… she smiled, feeling a blush rising on her cheeks. She wasn’t alone. And for the first time she felt so complete. He had made himself comfortable in her disconnected life and acted as a touchstone. She could reason that it could have been professional propriety but for the way he had kissed her…

It had been nearly a month. She admitted, she wasn’t the fastest at figuring things out, but she was proud of the progress that she had made. He had kissed her when she was raw and vulnerable and it had felt like a flicker of warmth on a limb that had only ever known the cold. She pulled away from it at first, not knowing what to do with it. But as weeks passed and he restrained himself, she felt the long glances that followed her down hallways and the wind of the hand that almost reached out to take her own. And as she had lay in her bed in the lazy afternoon light, half buried in mounds of comforter and pillows, she started to crave the completion of those actions. She longed for his hand to reach out all the distance, for his gaze to stay after she looked his way. She even longed for the heated press of his lips against hers and the gentle brush of his hands against her skin. She could only hope that the time it had taken to come around would not have dissuaded him. When she asked him to accompany her to the club, she had been unable to refrain from the physical contact and when she closed her eyes into the hug, she could imagine that she felt him clinging back to her too.

Well if she had been subtle before, tonight would be a slap to the face. She could kill two birds with one stone; her heavy nerves about the club pounded in her veins right along with the fluttery nerves of anticipation. What had he called her last time? A dark ninja temptress? She smiled to herself and padded barefoot into her bedroom to see where the dress had migrated to in her closet. She didn’t even note the bedroom’s darkness, walking fearlessly into the unlit room.

 

* * *

 

 

By the time that Fitz reached Jemma's flat, he had recovered well from the call. (Given, the shot of bourbon he’d downed before leaving was doing most of the heavy lifting in that regard, but he wasn't going to complain.) They could do this. Finish the last chapter in a week? Certainly they had both gotten a little off track recently and progress had dwindled. The book had not exactly been the first thing on his mind in a while but with some gentle refocusing he was confident that they could fish it off nicely. After all, when Jemma was in writing mode, she was like a guided missile.

All of that was tomorrow's problem, however. Tonight, he and Jemma were… Well honestly who knew what they were anymore. Their relationship levels had varied so much in the last month between coworkers, friends, maybe more? The safest thing was just to say that he and Jemma would be attending a club. As what, he had no idea.

He rang her flat and leaned against the doorframe.

“Come on up, Fitz, I'm just finishing up!” Jemma called down, buzzing him up.

He grinned at the excitement in her voice and hurried up the stairs to where she waited with the door open for him. _Christ…_ He mentally crossed coworkers off the list. The ensemble she had chosen for this evening had a wide boat neck that displayed a, frankly, stunning set of collar bones. The midnight blue fabric clung down her arms and torso but her long pale legs were bared below the hips and punctuated with a pair of gold heels. She leaned against the doorframe, loose curls framing her face and the wicked smile that danced in her eyes. She knew exactly what she was doing.

“Hi,” she said with a grin, turning to allow him into her flat.

Fitz attempted to respond but only a strangled noise emerged as he saw the extent of back that the dress revealed. He blushed fiercely and coughed, trying to regain his composure as he stumbled after her into the room. “’Ello,” he finally managed.

Jemma swept through her apartment, tucking stray strands of hair behind her ears and picking up her coat and a golden scarf. “My dark ninja temptress dress was nowhere to be found,” she said casually over her shoulder. “I think I left it at your place, you know. Last time.”

Fitz froze, distinctly looking anywhere but at her in order to try to pull himself together. “Righ’. Las’ time.” He shoved his hands into his pockets to keep them from reaching for her. “Are you going to be bringing tha’ gun of yours with you tonigh’?”

Jemma smiled and held up a different purse than the one she had carried that night. “No weapon. No panic button. Tonight I am entirely in your hands.” She smirked.

He inhaled deeply and laughed it out, breathlessly. “Chris’, Jemma. Wha’ the hell are you doing?”

She grinned. “It’s going to be a great night! We’re celebrating!”

The corner of his mouth curled up into one of his crooked grins. “Wha’ are we celebrating?”

“Being young and alive and demon-less!” She raised her arms and gave an adorable little twirl.

Fitz snorted, and tried not to grin like an idiot back at her. “Been hitting the juice already tonigh’?”

She regarded him with her large molten eyes, which tonight somehow seemed to be radiating like embers in a stove. Frankly, he was surprised her eyelashes didn’t catch fire. “I might have had a shot of whiskey already…” she admitted.

He laughed and took her hand easily, unable to ignore the puzzle-piece way that her fingers fit perfectly into his. “Alrigh’ fair enough. You ready to go?” She smelled like jasmine and he felt dizzy and intoxicated just breathing her in. As she nodded and slipped on her coat, tying the golden scarf around her throat, he concentrated on swallowing as he watched the curves of her throat revealed in the near darkness of the flat. Tonight was destined for trouble and he wasn’t entirely sure that he cared. He took her hand again after she buttoned her coat (friends definitely held hands, right?) and offered her a heartfelt smile.

           

He had purposefully brought her to the club a little earlier than the normal crowd arrived, with the hope that getting used to the environment before the masses flooded in would make her more comfortable. Indeed, after a few cautious minutes of hesitant smiles while checking their coats and her purse and a tighter grip on his hand than perhaps the situation warranted, she began to smile in earnest and he relaxed in response. The smaller club was cleaner and had lighting better suited to its size than the club he’d rescued her from. There were few dark corners and while the music was loud enough to be contagious and encourage close-quarters, it wouldn’t be so loud as to make her anxious.

Jemma still looked a bit nervous underneath her excitement so he led her to the bar where he offered her a seat and bought the first round. She offered him a warm smile as he handed over her mojito and he had to wrestle his eyes away from her. In the colored light of the bar, her skin was luminous and her eyes burned like embers. The ways her lips parted around the straw of the drink sent a shiver down his neck and he felt goosebumps raise on his skin. At her perch on the stool and with his stance leaning against the bar next to her, she was eye-level with him, barely a reach away. He threw his drink back with a bit more enthusiasm than he meant as he attempted nonchalance.

Her eyes were all over him. He coughed as he tried to swallow, blushing as she noticed his reaction and grinned. He would be lying if he said that he hadn’t chosen his attire with care, picking his best dark jeans and a green shirt that Skye had complimented on multiple occasions. He had spent more than a few minutes scowling in front of his mirror in an attempt to tame his unruly curls, kept cropped ruthlessly short, until he was satisfied. But witnessing her stare at him with such obvious unveiled interest? That was something else. He leaned close for her to hear and breathed in another wave of jasmine that almost melted him. “Something on your mind, lass?” His voice was rougher than he was comfortable with, obviously demonstrating the effect she was having on him.

She smiled, a glint in her eyes. “Maybe.”

Fitz shook his head but couldn’t fight the smile that spread across his face. He leaned back in, his lips almost brushing against the skin of her ear. “I didn’t tell you earlier, but you look gorgeous…”

“Better than a dark ninja temptress?”

He chuckled and nodded, feeling her hair brush against his cheek. “Yes, even better than dark ninja temptresses.”

“Good.” She leaned back to her drink and took a sip with a far too satisfied smile on her face.

As the night approached more normal club hours, the bar became more and more populated and Fitz and Jemma became closer pressed together from the masses of people getting drinks and conversing. More than one guy attempted to attract Jemma’s attention with a careful greeting and questions as to if they could buy her a drink, but each time she offered a smile and an apology with Fitz squirming uncomfortably next to her. By the bottom of their second drinks, Fitz grew exasperated as the third guy asked and as the disappointed blond stalked off, he draped his arm casually around her shoulders. Jemma raised an eyebrow. “What, you jealous? You want someone to ask to buy you a drink?” she laughed.

“No,” he responded, loosely. The drinks and the shots were working their way into his system, making him feel warm, comfortable, and relaxed. He soaked up her presence like a sponge. “I’m jus’ tired of sharing.”

She rewarded him with a smile that told him that he had said the right thing as she swirled the bottom of her drink with the straw. Fitz had started to shift back and forth with the music; it was impossible to stand still with the press of people around the bar, but the drinks and the beating bass were loosening him, encouraging him to move. He threw back the rest of his drink and grinned, taking Jemma’s hands in his. “Come on. Dance with me?” He gently coaxed her off her stool and towards the dance floor which was now far more occupied with people than it had been when they arrived. Couples, groups, and even the lone person or two danced, clapped, and spun along with the music. Laughter and smiles were spread across every face, drinks in many a hand.

Jemma allowed herself to be encouraged towards the floor but gave him a slightly embarrassed expression. “I’m absolute rubbish at dancing, Fitz,” she called into his ear, pulling him by the front of the shirt close enough for him to hear.

“Nonsense. Only one of us can be absolute rubbish and I’ve already claimed tha’ role.”

She laughed but relented enough to let him pull her out onto the floor where the mass of people pressed the two of them close. At first, she exchanged self-conscious glances around them at the pairs surrounding them and just stepped back and forth in time with the music. He watched her carefully for any of her anxious tells, but her hands were loose at her side and her nervous expression more embarrassed than fearful. She wasn’t panicking, just insecure.

Emboldened by the alcohol pulsing through his veins, he pulled her close to shout in her ear. “Come on, Jem. Wha’ happened to being young and alive and demon-less?” He took her hands which were clammy, but steady. “Ignore all them. Jus’ look at me.” Her dark golden eyes shone in the lights and he felt the bottom of his stomach drop. “Jus’ relax. Jus’ dance with me.”

She kept her wide eyes on his face, expression hesitant but determined. Her hands were held loosely in his as she shifted beside him to the beat. Grinning at her, he pulled on each of her arms, reenacting the same dance move every five year old inevitably learns and coaxing laughter to bubble naturally from her chest. He released one hand and waved to encourage her to spin around, which she did unreservedly, giggling and finally relaxing into the music. He continued through every silly dance move that he knew, making a fool out of himself happily if it meant that she was more comfortable. If he attracted amused stares or comments, he neither cared nor noticed. Despite the push and thrum of the crowd, there was only he and Jemma. His gaze never left her, lingering on the curves of her face and the lights in her eyes.

Eventually she hugged him close, still shaking with laughter and brought her lips up to his ear to shout, “Thank you, Fitz.”

He smiled down at her, heart racing at the feel of her laughter pressed to his chest. “Anytime.”

After his display and the passing of time for the contagious music and the effect of the alcohol to work into both of their systems, they began to dance in earnest. She was blur of bright smiles and burning eyes, presses of curves and long lines against him that left his mind blurry and his body warm. They moved closer together, space shrinking, as the cluster of people around them grew, dancing together with each beat. After several uncomfortable moments trying to find anywhere to put his hands that _wasn’t_ on her hips or around her waist, he threw caution to the wind and rested his hands against her. The depth of the dark-eyed smile she offered in response was indecent. Through the dark fabric, he could feel the heat of her skin and he swallowed, his jeans suddenly tight. She leaned in close to him, relaxing to the beat and swaying with the music, her hips bumping against his thighs as they danced. He held out one hand to her again and she took it, laughter piercing through the music as she pirouetted underneath it, gracefully and wonderfully out of place.

She pulled her hands away to brush strands of hair, damp with sweat, out of her smiling face. Her expression was bright and lively, the happiest he’d seen her. He had a sudden desire to capture her there in writing, the colored lights playing against her skin in streaks like war paint, a bright and jubilant smile across her face and her face sprinkled with freckles and laughter lines. Instead he shook his head as if in a daze and leaned down to catch what she had said. “Wha’?”

“I said I’m having a really good time!” She was nearly pressed flush against him to shout in his ear and he could feel the warmth radiating off her skin, waves of jasmine nearly overwhelming him. The realness, the immediacy of her rushed over him and he felt sudden elation that in this moment of happiness, he was able to play a part. She was smiling up at him with her bright eyes and he could no longer hold back. In response, he tucked a hand underneath her jaw and, without waiting for a response, soundly pressed his lips against hers. She quickly wove her arms around his neck and leaned into him. In that moment, she was mint and rum, jasmine and colored lights, the sweep of her hair and the velvet of her skin. He swept his tongue across her bottom lip and he felt her gasp into his mouth, pulling more tightly against him.

In a jumble of messy kisses and laughter, stumbling over shoes and quick apologies to other people, they made it through the coat check and out into the cold London night where crowds were still gathering to begin their night at the club. She insisted on wearing his leather jacket over her dress and he watched her in wonder as she spun along beside him on the sidewalk, carrying her winter coat and purse in his other hand. He didn’t feel the London chill against his arms or face. They both seemed to be bright stars, radiating with their own heat and repeatedly drawn into each other’s gravity. His eyes lingered over the enveloping way his jacket draped over her slight figure and didn’t shy away when his glances were caught by her own.

They walked hand in hand along the street, stopping more often than not to press eagerly against each other and exchange wild kisses, murmuring unheard words against each other’s throats and running fingers through loose curls. The embraces, the glances, the touches were no longer tamed in his mind, loosened by alcohol and her presence. In the last weeks where he had longed to reach for her and pull her back into his space, his hand now repeatedly caught hers to feel the warmth of her against him. He pressed kisses like praises across her cheeks and she held on him like he might vanish with the wind. And if it took them twice as long to get to her flat as it normally would have, well, neither of them minded.

Jemma nimbly unlocked the front door for them and slipped off her golden heels, skipping up the stairs in her bare feet, still cloaked in his leather jacket as he followed behind, one hand held tightly in hers. She giggled as she unlocked her flat’s door and pushed it open behind her as she threw herself back at Fitz, slanting her mouth over his with surprising heat. He caught her easily and wrapped one arm around her back, feeling her legs lock around his waist. There were no warnings left, no more mental caution tape. He had thought his attraction to her unreciprocated, but from the moment he had arrived at this same doorway hours before, she had been clearly trying to show him otherwise. Her hungry kisses against his lips robbed him of his breath.

Behind him, he fumbled for the door and accidentally slammed it, latching the locks into place and then tossing down her coat and purse so he could wrap both arms completely around her and hold her against him. His mind was muddled with alcohol and with her scent, her touch, her warmth. He reverently kissed down her jawline to her pulse point and pressed deep kisses there, relishing in the way she hissed and wrapped herself around him tighter. The small moan in his throat caught him quite by surprise as her hips squeezed more firmly against his own arousal.

Jemma pulled away for a moment, her eyes shockingly bright in the dark apartment, and looked up at him with a heavy, alluring smile. Her lips parted as she breathed heavily; he could only stare at her mutely, eyes locked on the kiss-swollen curve of her lips. In the silent apartment, the rough rhythm of their breathing seemed loud enough to echo within the space. After a moment, Jemma deliberately unhooked her legs and swung down to stand, loud clattering behind her indicating that she had dropped her heels haphazardly. Already, his hands trailed after her, desperate to pull her back.

Slowly, smiling, she stood up onto her bare toes and slid her hands along either side of his jaw to bring his mouth down to meet hers. There was an explosion of warmth somewhere deep within his chest and he pulled her close until his body was flush against hers, slotting his mouth against hers to run his tongue along her bottom lip again. Breathlessly, her lips parted and her tongue darted out to meet his, but all too soon she pulled away, smiling at his dissatisfied noise, and took his hand, pulling him back towards her darkened bedroom.

Clumsily, he kicked off his shoes behind him in some semblance of keeping with her house rules and hurried after her. She languidly slipped his jacket off her shoulders onto the corner post of her bed and he shuddered, goosebumps running down his neck again at the sliver of bare back the hallway light illuminated. One triangle of flawless ivory skin in the darkness. She turned on a small light and he saw that she was watching him steadily, eyes burning again like embers, like a question. She walked deliberately towards him and his heart pounded in his chest. He swore she would hear it. Small delicate hands came up to the neckline of his shirt and the buttons there and slowly undid the first few until she could run her fingertips against the smooth planes of his chest. His eyes drifted shut and he exhaled deeply, feeling the significant pressure beneath his belt and the dizzying feeling of her touch against his bare skin.

Unexpectedly, her lips were fervently pressed against his again and all caution on both their parts was lost, replaced with desperate, burning haste. Her hands fumbled at the rest of his shirt buttons as he drew deep kisses down her jawline, feeling the heat of her skin on his mouth and tasting the salt of her dancing. She urgently pulled his shirt out from his belt and worked it off his arms until it fell, forgotten, onto the floor. She spread her fingers, pressing against the muscles of his chest, drawing fiery streaks across his skin. He felt her lips against his cheek curl into a smile as she ran her hands down his shoulders and arms, giggling quietly when he was unable to restrain a shudder at her touch.

Gently, she guided him back until he found her bed with the backs of his legs. He sat down on the edge, spreading his hands around her waist and pulling Jemma back to him, onto his lap. She ran her fingers over the muscles in his chest and Fitz felt his breath catch, feeling fire at every contact and hissing at her touch. Pulling back from her for a moment, he looked up into her face, searching out her burning eyes. The smile stretched across her face was a mixture of gentle affection and wickedness that only Jemma could produce. Emboldened, he brushed kiss after kiss down her collar bones and carefully pulled down the wide shoulders of her dress to reveal more of the pale, perfect skin of her shoulders. Beneath her skin, her pulse fluttered and he could feel his own pounding through his veins like a hammer, like a rough murmur.

At his touch her lips parted and she closed her eyes, breathing roughly. “Mmmm… Fitz…” she whispered. “That feels lovely.”

“I haven’t even started yet…” he murmured back against her collarbones, drawing a shiver from her. Suddenly, he froze. “Tha’ is,” he said, more awkwardly than roguishly, “if you’re consenting.” The mere flicker of the anxiety of having to back out of this now brought the raging of his system to a screaming halt. _Coworkers_ echoed through his head like a curse.

He felt more than heard her laughter as her shoulders vibrated beneath his lips. “Of course I am, Fitz.”

Pulling back so he could tilt his head back and look her in the eye, he continued intently, “I’m serious, Jemma. We’ve both been drinking and I don’t want to anything tha’ you don’t-”

“Fitz,” Jemma said seriously, staring at him, a small affectionate smile playing about her kiss-swollen lips. “I’ve been thinking about this sober, too. I give my full and enthusiastic consent for you, Leopold Fitz, to fuck me proper tonight.”

He could feel his ears reddening but he tightened his arms around her and he muttered, “Well, when you put it tha’ way…” Her giggles turned into small gasps as he continued to press kisses along her collarbones. Slowly, he ran his hands up her arms and to her ribs where the zipper to her dress was tucked. Nipping slightly at her pulse point with his teeth and then soothing away the sting with his tongue, he undid the zipper midway down her side, trembling slightly when his fingers ghosted over the bare skin there. Bottled-up dreams of this, stifled thoughts of her closeness, repressed visions of dark eyes and pale skin all came rushing back to him from the last few weeks of trying to chase her from his mind. He forced himself to stop and breathe for a moment, digesting this reality.

Jemma hummed contentedly in his arms and, in happy disbelief, he nuzzled up to her ear. His fingers found the top shoulders of her sleeves and eagerly pulled them down her arms, deliberately revealing the top swell of her pale breasts, raising slightly with each of her rough breaths. He brushed slow deep kisses against her breastbone, fighting the raging pulse pounding in his ears encouraging haste. His spine stiffened as her fingers ran up to twine themselves in his hair and hold him securely against her. She shifted slightly and the sudden pressure against his erection made him gasp and nip at her breast, earning a gasp in return as he lathered it with kisses.

Jemma’s skin was smooth as silk and running his hands against it was like brushing against a live wire: all the nerve endings on his fingertips were flaring like fireworks. He pulled her close and pressed kisses against the swells of her breasts while his hands pressed against her shoulder blades on the bare of her back. One of her hands travelled down his neck to explore the knots and muscles of his back, pressing firmly against the ribs she found there and tracing her nails against his skin causing him to groan against her chest, embracing her tightly for a moment.

Feverishly gripping the sleeves of her dress more firmly, he pulled them down completely to reveal her arms and two full round breasts. He fumbled to set his hands against them, eagerly massaging the velvet skin and flicking her nipples, grinning against her neck when he realized they were already hardened under his touch and her desire. Jemma hummed again and started kissing his throat, the satin smooth of her lips a fierce counterpoint to his stubble. She nipped his earlobe and he hissed, bucking his hips up reflexively, pushing his erection against her. She pulled away enough to giggle and press more kisses against his throat. He couldn’t hide his own wolfish grin in response and hungrily traced his hands down her back to the remainder of the zipper.

The skirt of her dress was now hiked indecently high on her hips as she locked her legs around him, so he unzipped the length of the dress and dropped it on the ground behind her, baring her before him. For a moment, he was overwhelmed, so swept up in the sensuous sight of her almost completely nude in the half-light and on his lap that he nearly forgot his original intent. Eagerly sweeping her up easily into his arms and laying her gently onto her back amidst tangles of white comforters and sheets, he tried to look serious and utterly failed, unable to keep the enthusiastic grin off his face. “Look, I will have you know tha’ making love with me is a very serious matter. Not for giggling.”

She looked at him, grinning, and then burst into a peal of laughter that set him chuckling as well. He sighed with a smile. “Yeah, tha’ never works.” He leaned over her on his elbows, hovering above her teasingly to press heated kisses across her throat and gradually down to her breast where he sucked on one nipple, relishing the way she bucked up beneath him, gasping, running her hands down his back again. He ghosted the knuckles of one hand down the side of her ribcage down to her hip bones and back, gradually growing closer and closer towards center until she began to try to hasten the process by moving into his touch. He chuckled as she gave a keening whine. “Alrigh’ no more teasing. I promise.”

Pressing a kiss to her pout instead, he let his hand trail lower to brush across the meeting of her thighs, feeling her gasp into his mouth. It was clear that she had been making her own play at seducing him all evening, but still, it was another matter to feel the evidence of her desire on his fingertips as he traced his fingers against the satin of her knickers. He felt the heady sensation of his own rush of desire, feeling a familiar pulsing beneath his belt. He could wait.

Fitz traced kiss after languid kiss down Jemma’s breast and then rib cage, her stomach and coming to a rest at the top of her knickers which, with a smile up at Jemma’s pleading look, were quickly worked off her hips and discarded. Then she lay bare before him and Fitz forced himself to breathe, stunned by her beauty and vulnerability, spread out before him in the semi-darkness, pale face surrounded by the halo of her dark copper hair.

Jemma bit her bottom lip, half embarrassment and half desire as she choked out a shy, “You… uh… you don’t have to you know... if you don’t want to…”

He pressed kisses to her warm thighs and smiled. “Do you want me to?” As she smiled shyly and nodded in response, he ducked his head to the warmth between her thighs and flicked his tongue across her. She hissed and bucked her hips up to find the stimulation again and he chuckled, warm breath against the inside of her legs. She moaned softly in response and wove her fingers through his hair pleadingly and he happily obliged, setting about exploring her and the movements that made her gasp or moan, clutch at the bedding or buck her hips up for more. He circled with his tongue that nub of nerves he knew she craved so much, flicking back and forth across it several times as he brought his fingers up to explore deeper within her. He licked up across her clit slowly as he slotted two fingers deep inside her. She gasped and her fingers tightened in his hair, enthusiastically pressing his head against the apex of her thighs.

The tension in her muscles was growing, he could feel her legs trembling on either side of him. He fluttered his fingers within her and felt her contract around him in response, breathing heavily and clutching at the bedding with her spare hand. Her eyes were pressed shut and she writhed beneath his touch. Smiling, he sucked against her clit and curled his fingers within her and heard her whine. “Please, oh- Fitz - , please more… like that…”

His erection was firmly pressed beneath his body and the bed as he caressed her and he could feel it swell and surge with each sigh of his name and each grip of her fingers in his hair.

“Oh--- fuck--” she swore, breathing raggedly and bucking up against him. “’m so close…”

Against her clit, he sucked firmly, pitching his fingers in and out of her with rhythm to match her own increasing one. He felt her muscles spasm and clench.

“Fuck… _Fuck_ … oh my god Fitz… fuck… _”_

He tried to draw it out for her as long as he could, lengthening the swell of her orgasm as she whimpered his name, riding the wave of it with her and bringing her back down with gentle licks and touches as she panted and trembled in the aftermath, seeming slightly stunned.

He had expected her to need a few minutes, to breathe if nothing else, but almost immediately she pulled him into a tight embrace, pressing enthusiastic kisses to his face, his jaw, his neck. Chuckling roughly, he murmured, “I take it you liked it then.”

* * *

 

           

Jemma broke the embrace to pull away and beam brightly at Fitz, still feeling the reeling electricity of her climax dissipating through her limbs. Her toes tingled with it and she felt burning, radiant, _alive._ “Yes, I did,” she said, aiming for nonchalance but ruining it with a giggle. His unusually dark eyes glittered in the low light as he bent his head to her collarbone, chuckling against her chest. The rumble of his laughter against her ribcage made her toes clench pleasantly and she bit her lip, blushingly as she brazenly worked her hands down his body to the fastening of his jeans and set to work on the button. Fitz looked back up to her with that roguish crooked smile of his, daring her with his eyes. She trembled at the intensity of his eyes and her normally nimble fingers fumbled with the button, still recovering from her orgasm and trying to tame her already rekindling desire.

After a minute of blushing and working her fingers against the solid press behind his zipper, his jeans finally parted and she worked them off his hips with a shimmy, grinning at the soft hiss he gave when finally free of the confines of his jeans. Though his eyes were still dark and intense on her face as he breathed unsteadily, she didn’t miss the way the tips of his ears turned pink when she snuck a glance at his erection, feeling a tingle down her spine. She tossed his jeans to the side and pulled him flush against her, reveling in the warmth of his skin against hers and the scent of his skin.

She traced her fingertips along the planes of his back and pressed her lips to the hollow of his neck, feeling the rush of his pulse beneath the skin of her lips and the small tremors down his spine in her hands. He let out his breath in a rush against her hair and buried his hands in her untamed curls, encircling her in his embrace. The stubble across his jaw played roughly against her lips, but she liked the contrast of sensations. She hummed contentedly and playfully nipped his ear, feeling a pulse against her hip in response. Fitz hungrily pressed his lips against hers, making her blood boil with his heated, heedless kisses. His hands roughly traced unseen patterns across her skin and she shivered at the counterpoint of rough and smooth, shifting up to press closer into his embrace. She coyly trailed her hands down his chest and torso and blushingly brushed a hand up to grasp his erection but almost immediately Fitz made a strangled noise in his chest and jolted back out of her grasp. Startled, Jemma’s eyes darted to his face where he was wrestling back a sheepish grin and shaking his head.

“I appreciate the thought but I wouldn’t, Jem.”

She stared up at him with wide, confused eyes. “Why not?”

Embarrassedly, Fitz shifted above her, holding up most of his weight on his forearms so as to not overwhelm her and offering, in Jemma’s opinion, a rather distracting view of his arm muscles at work. “’Cause if you do then this is going to be over in abou’ four seconds,” he finally admitted bluntly.

Jemma dropped her hand back down to the bed and grinned up at him, restraining the urge to giggle. “Really?” She blushed.

Fitz gave her a look and said, flustered, “Well in my defense, you’ve been working at me all night.”

She tried to look chastised, but only ended up smirking, feeling the corners of her eyes crinkle in laughter. “Guilty.”

Fitz chuckled and shook his head as he gazed down at her. Jemma had the distinct feeling that he was taking in every inch, every shadow, every freckle of her. She blushed and his smile widened. He leaned his head down to ghost his lips across hers and she reached up to pull him back further into their embrace again. “You asked for it,” he murmured roughly. Her head suddenly swam with the sensation of him, _everywhere._ His hands stroked at her breasts which rose and fell with each of her heavy breaths, her collarbones that cupped like small empty pools at the base of her throat, her thighs that trembled at every touch, her hipbones which she always imagined sticking up like ungainly glaciers in an otherwise smooth sea. He pressed praises in the forms of kisses against her skin, lighting every inch of her aflame and singing symphonies of her nerves.

In response she sculpted statues of his shoulders, following muscles and tendons to joints and bones, pressing against each rib with her fingers splayed over his chest. Her nails trailed a line across his back and earned a hiss against her skin. She memorized each dip of his spine and then quickly forgot it all with a hungry press of his lips against her breast. Her hair gathered in dampened strands that stuck to her face, but she didn’t lift her hands from him to brush it away. He traced her freckles like stars and connected them into constellations; she sang tributes with her hands to his steadiness, his sturdiness, his stability. She thanked him with a thousand kisses for being the rock in her turbulent life.

Their breaths tumbled over each other like sea-storm waves, their eyes both dark and bright. Their movements a free-flowing symphony. Eventually they worked Fitz out of his briefs and lay, entwined and ever moving against the cradle of Jemma’s bed, touching, kissing, whispering, gasping.

There reached a moment of desperation where fingers dug a little deeper into skin and breaths rose and plummeted unevenly. Jemma blindly reached for the bedside table and urgently dug in the drawer until her hand closed on a small foil packet which she fumbled into Fitz’s grip, not daring to tear her lips from his. Unspoken understanding passed between them and he quickly withdrew his hands from her skin to open the packet and slide the condom on. His hands quickly returned to mapping out the curves of her skin and she drew him close, breathing heavily as he stopped his urgent caresses to look her in the eyes. She shuddered under his gaze, feeling lost in the blue depths and nodding in response to the question she saw there.

Fitz leaned down, pressing into her and drawing a hiss from between her teeth as she stretched. It wasn’t surprising- it had been a long while after all and those muscles hadn’t been used much. He stilled at the sound, watching her closely until she finally felt herself relax and her muscles unclench before he moved again. Surrounded by him, filled by him, enveloped by him, Jemma felt like Fitz was all there was. She could feel the rough beat of his heart against her breasts and the rough gasps of his breath against her neck. The full feeling of him within her swelled as he set up a rhythm in and out of her and she lifted her hips to wrap her legs around him, moaning softly when the slight change in angle added a sweet pressure between her thighs. She felt the heady, live-wire feeling preceding an orgasm, smoldering like an ember in her belly and her hips tensed in response. Her tightening around him drew a groan and a softly murmured curse out of him and beneath the fire of his skin against hers, she felt the tremors growing in his muscles.

She tightened around him further, silently encouraging him deeper, closer, harder and on one particular thrust she felt her head swim as she lost herself into the feeling of sudden acceleration that her climax always brought. The ember in her belly flared to life and her muscles clenched at once in one overwhelming rush. She breathily moaned his name as her hands clenched against his back and felt him topple off that ledge only a moment later, swearing and shuddering. They lay that way for a few minutes, gasping and unwilling to release each other yet. Jemma was certain that she was glowing. They were a tangle of limbs and sheets, sweat and whispers. When Fitz finally caught his breath and pulled out, Jemma almost hissed again, already missing the warm pressure of him within her. He pressed kisses against her chest, her throat, her cheek and she nestled against him, wrestling one of the blankets up with her toes so that she could pull it over the two of them.

With her cheek pressed against the rising and falling of his chest, she listened to his heartbeat gradually settle with a smile. He repeatedly kissed the top of her head and his thumbs danced small circles against the skin of her back and shoulders. She wasn’t certain what to say. She wasn’t certain anything needed to be said. In warm and comfortable sleepy silence, her eyes gradually grew heavy.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

In the morning, Fitz’s first thought was of how supremely comfortable he was. He lingered in the sensation, putting off opening his eyes and losing this sense of utter ease. He shifted slightly and felt the warm someone who was wrapped around his torso move gently in response, still asleep. Smiling sleepily, he kept his eyes shut as he brought his hand up to run gently through Jemma’s hair, sending small wafts of jasmine and salt through the bedroom. Jemma’s head was pillowed on his arm, with one arm thrown across his chest and one bare leg across his hip. In the middle of the night, one of them had pulled a heavier blanket over them against the late November cold. It draped over their nude forms in the early morning light like some still life and Fitz found that he had never before enjoyed the early morning more. His thumb traced small circles across Jemma’s bare back and she stirred softly.

“Mmm… what time is it?” she whispered drowsily, tucking herself in closer to him.

“Shhhhh…. Go back to sleep, lass. It’s not even properly morning.”

He felt the corners of her mouth curl into a smile against his chest and she stretched softly, sighing contentedly. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy in all my life.”

Suddenly, with horrid clarity, it all snapped into place.

_It’s why I write, Fitz._

_It needs to come out or it just stays inside._

_Only a few more weeks. Then I can go back to the lab. But I worry I won’t be any better._

_It’s her writer’s tic isn’t it? No misery, no poetry._

_I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy…_

With a horrible sinking feeling, suddenly it all made sense. Her growing trouble in finishing the story as they became closer. Her catharsis in bleeding her past out in this story. His presence both acting as a balm and stopping the bleeding before the toxins were gone. Breathing carefully, so as not to alert her to his alarm, he thought quickly, mind racing. The story was due in a week. His presence, his friendship, his _relationship_ with her was good for her. She was happy. She couldn’t write when she was happy; all the best periods of her writing had been when she had been truly and deeply miserable. If she never got it all out, if she never finished the story and got that final validation and relief of her pain, then who knows if she would have the faith in herself to return to the lab, to the place she loved, out from under the umbrella of fear she had lived with for the last nineteen years.

He had to leave her alone.

It was going to be the most difficult thing he’d ever done. But he had to let her go, let her hurt and let her write for just one week, _just one chapter more,_ and then it would be done and they could be together and she would be published and confident. Young and alive and demon-free. He breathed deeply and bid his hands be steady. It would hurt her… _don’t do it…_ but if he didn’t do it, she might never feel free. She might never know her strength.

The anxiety of it worked its way up his throat until he thought he might choke from the pressure of it. There wasn’t any time. They had less than a week to get that last chapter and she would need it to be able to finish it. He had to leave. He had to withdraw this morning.

_But tha’ was going to look so bad after last night._

That thought stung more than most. She would feel used, betrayed, and alone. The perfect place for writing, but the last place he’d ever want to put a friend. He glanced down at her dozing figure, curled up trustingly in his shoulder. His friend?

The person he was beginning to love.

He did love her. Her sharp comebacks and the annoying ways she bounced her knee when she was thinking. Her odd affection for that one yellow mug and the way she lost pens the way other girls shed bobby pins. Her bright peals of laughter and the catlike way she curled up on furniture. The darkness in her story and the brightness in her eyes. He drew a shaky breath. This was the worst idea, but he didn’t know what else to do.

He gently moved Jemma to the pillow beside her and slipped out from beneath the covers. She stirred slightly but he reached out reflexively to brush the hair away from her face. “Shhhh… I’m sorry, Jem. I have to go.”

She murmured a sleepy complaint, but curled contentedly enough back into the covers. As quietly as he could, he donned his clothes, feeling his own judgements raining down on him as he tied his shoes and retrieved his leather jacket from the floor. It still carried traces of Jemma on it, the briefest wisp of jasmine and lavender. He blinked rapidly, looking back at where she peacefully slept, a bright copper cloud of hair amidst the white comforters and sheets. “’m sorry, Jemma,” he whispered. “This is the best thing I know to do for you, and it’s in the worst way.”

He forced himself to turn from the bedroom and walk from the apartment, hating himself more with every step.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, I want them to be happy too. 
> 
> Also cheers if you caught the Daredevil reference.

**Author's Note:**

> A few things to note:  
> \- while Fitz may not like what rides it's coat tails, he does like the Hunger Games, so hush  
> \- I realize that Marylebone is like... really expensive to live in, but I liked the poetry of Jemma living in the area where famous authors such as H.G. Wells and Arthur Conan Doyle lived.


End file.
